ROUGH DRAFT. NEEDS EDITING.
The Rings
Here is a photo taken when I would have been just 2 to 3 years old. Notice I am the little boy in a pushchair in the photo, with a black harness and reins hanging off my shoulders, in what looks to be a happy and idyllic photo of a family snapshot taken at Bridport harbour back in 1958 or 1959.
Somerset born, from Yeovil, my Nan and my Aunty Jean both had caravans based at the West Bay caravan site so it was common, (and inexpensive), for all of our family clan to take “free” holidays at West Bay every now and again.
Anyway, the anecdote I am about to relate, (the very first anecdote of hundreds of life experiences I will soon decant onto these pages), represents my very first every conscious memory. A memory not prompted by the above photo but prompted by the first indelible experience I would have ever burned into my memory.
The Rings
Over my lifetime, either seriously or for amusement, I had always related what I always believed was my first ever childhood recollection.
OK. Such an observation might seem flippant or profound, depending on a point of view but, I never ever imagined or realised that one day I’d find myself being able to bolster such a memory (of a memory) with documented proof of the event!
Below is that account. (Taken from my autobiography).
I wrote:
“My first conscious memory was of being a toddler wheeled in my pushchair … at breakneck speed … along the road of the kerb lined grass “circle” in front of our house.
With me terrified and screaming, my brother John would holler for me to stop crying before even considering slowing down.
“Stop crying and I’ll stop pushing”, he would shout … but … even when I did so, I faced a different ultimatum.
“Cheer up now”, he would threaten, “Or I’ll use the rings!”
John would say, “Stop crying or I’ll use the rings”
John would pretend to disengage the rings of my pushchair, an act that would cause the pushchair to fold up on itself, gobbling me up in the process.”
So … my first ever memory was a disturbing and frightening memory. A memory of being scared, bullied and traumatised with the threat of coming to some kind of mortal harm no matter whether I screamed out for mercy or whether I kept silent in the hope that the nightmare would stop!
Khaki shorts
Incidentally … look at my 10 year old step brother John, (Standing left in the photo), and notice that he is wearing an oversized pair of khaki shorts way too big for him.
They are a pair of shorts more suited to a 16 year old teenager or an adult
(Pause)
Well … I would be handed down those shorts by the time I was 7 or 8 years old and would be expected to wear them until I, myself, was a teenager.
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