Regular reader, the bold JP, has decided to respond to my invitation to write a post, so without further ado, here it is.
******
As a small boy, one day my Dad said to me "Son, I'm giving you this - it's all
that remains of my childhood catapult. It was a beltin' catapult, but it's
all I've got left of me toys, an' I'm now givin' it to you, so look after it!" He handed me a bare, gnarled, age-darkened Y-shaped piece of a tree
branch, with a bit of grubby string bound around the handle.
Now jump forward a few
years and the latest craze in our village was for metal (Milbro) catapults you could
get from the ironmonger's, and which could fire marbles for miles because of its really strong rubber. But they were just too pricey for me to buy, so I
thought "Ah, I know! I'll mek one me sen out a that 'un me faether gimme!" (I
don't know why I was talking like Kes, as I lived in the Midlands!) So I took some
strong rubber off an aeroplane-launching toy, made a slingshot and threaded the rubber through it and bound it tightly to the cut-out tips with
strong thin string and it was made. But would it be any good?
There was only one way to find out, so, armed with a bag of marbles, I climbed up on the bedroom windowsill, opened the window wide and let one fly! Wow! It went for miles!
It was just like a bullet! But what should I aim at? In the field behind our garden was a telegraph pole, but in the next field to the right, there was a
pumping station with a glass skylight.
No contest.
And so I began
showering the building with marbles! As it was so far away I couldn't actually
see or hear if I was hitting it or not, but it didn't matter, because in my head
I was - The Smasher!
After a while, I was rudely interrupted by a very angry
man in a boilersuit, standing below me in the back garden. He was shaking both fists
in the air and saying "Grrr!" Red fumes were rising from his even redder face
and steam was billowing out of his ears! He had a huge lump on top of his
head and his face was covered in scratches and crossed plasters. "What do you
think you're doing?!" he yelled up at me and began pounding on the back
door.
"Get down here now!" he bellowed, so I went down to the back kitchen to face the music. "He's been smashing my windows with his catapult!"
Mr. Angry was yelling at my parents in incandescent rage. "What were you doing that for?" he demanded of me, whilst little birds and stars circled the purple lump on his head.
"I
didn't know I was," I lied, "I was aiming at the telegraph pole."
"Well,
you're not a very good shot then!" he retorted. "You're not even supposed to have a catapult, anyway! Where did you get it?" he interrogated, with a stern look in his eye.
"Me Dad gimme
it." I answered.
Then silence.
My Dad had turned bright red and wore a sickly grin. Sweat was pouring down his forehead. "Go and fetch it - I'm
going to confiscate it!" Mr. Angry ordered, so I did as I was told. Then I was sent to my room, so I climbed the stairs, saying "Bah!"
As I closed my
bedroom window, I could see Mr. Angry down below, surrounded by these
strange symbols - @#*%∆$#@!!
I never knew exactly what went on downstairs
after that, but for the rest of that week my Dad had strangely taken to walking around the house with his trouser pockets turned inside-out! Anyway, I stayed in my room for the remainder of that evening, and the next day, I thought it best not to mention the matter. And guess what? Nobody spoke about it again - ever!
Which was probably for the best I suppose.
