A Little From My Childhood.

I miss being amused by a cardboard box, allowing it to capture mine and my sisters imaginations, taking us to realms only children's minds can fathom. That was the beauty of youth. It was without consequence, you just did. We'd make up all sorts of games, that seemed to stretch out for hours, full of detail, full of emotion. Any one looking at us would have probably just described it as two young girls barking at one another. But it was so much more than that. Our games, despite lacking originality with such titles as; "The Puppy Game", "The Airplane Game" or "The Shark Game" were beautiful, in every aspect of the word. There were countless games, ones that were only played on holiday, or that needed certain trees, or equipment, but mainly the only tools we needed were our minds.

The games stopped, eventually, but the imagination was never curbed, and was allowed to expand into the other activities we pursued.

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Having learnt from a young age the importance of books, there was always a cornucopia of available reading material. On a holiday to Spain, I recall reading the book "Bridge Across My Sorrows" by Christina Noble. It was one of my mothers books, and I was only seven. But I remember reading about the deprivation, the sexual abuse, the hardship of life. I don't know whether I truly appreciated the themes in the book. However, I knew then, as a seven year old, that life wasn't always full of happiness. I think I felt lucky.

A few months later, I remember asking my mother what the term "rape" meant. We were out together, walking the dogs. We were headed towards the lake, and I had been dwelling on it, having some assumption of its meaning. My mother, not particularly phased, responded by asking "What do you think it means?" And I had told her I had read about it, or that I'd seen it plastered angrily across newspaper headlines. I told her I thought it had something to do with sex. She told me that was a part of it, only it was sex people didn't want. I think I understood.

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On the many trips out with my nan and grandad, we'd often visit the place with the squirrels. I only remember the story that I've been told, but one time whilst there, I got lost. My nan said it felt like hours passed, and still I hadn't returned. The anguish they felt only amplified when my sister commented that she'd seen "A strange man wandering around...". Luckily I was safe, and I came out crying from the bushes because I thought everyone had left me.

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When going about our weekly supermarket shop, my sister would often strive to get me lost. She'd deliberately point me in the opposite direction to where our parents had gone. I don't know why I believed her, but I'd be left in the aisle, close to tears, only for her to run back down the same aisle and grab me.

Those were the days. Still a little bit lost.