Picture the scene: The livingroom is lit by a standard lamp in
the far corner, which casts its soft, warm glow over the fixtures,
fittings and furniture - as well as the inhabitants, of which I am one.
Adding to the gentle light are the diffused rays from the coal-effect
fire and the flickering images from the TV screen. Father sits reading
his paper, whilst mother stands behind him, ironing, and glancing oc-
casionally at whatever's on 'the box'. Sibling is out somewhere,
either visiting friends or perhaps even working on his car in
his lockup across the road.
was once stored coal for a 'real' fire, both in our present house
and in the previous one. On the floor, at my feet, sits a collection
of comics, some of which were purchased, mail-order, from DAVE
HERN of Bournemouth's WONDERWORLD COMICS, which,
as far as I know, is still going strong (hopefully).
side, the 'tang' of the season permeates the air with its distinctive aroma
peculiar to the time of year. Inside, peace and tranquility reign supreme,
and all seems right with the world. It's the year 1981 - or perhaps even
'82 - and in my blissful state of ignorance, I'm unaware that, in a year and
a half or so, my family will once again be moving to yet another house in
another neighbourhood, with all the inconvenience, turmoil and trauma
that such events always bring. (Regular readers will know that we
returned to our previous abode four years later.)
harmony are the order of the day as I leisurely peruse some of
my recent four-colour acquisitions. It's entirely possible that I may
be compressing separate-but-similar evenings into one, but it seems
to me, looking back from this distance in time, that amongst my
comics stash that night were the very ones whose images adorn
this hopefully poignant post.
hint of that narcotic night so many years ago - and, occasionally, I
even succeed. However, it's only ever a brief taste, self-conscious-
ly indulged in (like a guilty pleasure) before the moment fades like a
phantom's fleeting passing in the mist. I still have the comics, but not
all of the other participants of that long-ago picturesque presentation
have survived to reprise their previous roles in the play. One by one
they fell by the wayside, victims of Time. (As we all must do
one day, difficult as the idea is to accept.)
reminiscence, accompanied by such valiant visual images, has
helped to summon some memorable memories from your own dim
and distant days of yesteryear. The ghosts of the past are always
present - but sometimes we must strain to see them, or hear
their siren call.