LITMIR.BIZ

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all he does is spend hours in a catatonic state in front of the television.’

      Independent Television (ITV) came with supportive advertisements. They were a novelty at first. We assembled to watch an advertisement, any advertisement. I soaked up television like a sponge. There was a spate of new car advertisements, which reopened my parents’ discussions about a new car. I was sure they were getting ready to replace their old Talbot, but with what? Cars around London were becoming status symbols.

      I was intrigued as to what they might buy as that was an area greyer than the London sky to me.

      

      Another pastime of mine was mulling over the contents of Dad’s bedside drawer. Beneath his handkerchiefs in an expensive looking silver cigarette case I discovered his stash of Durex condoms.

      ‘Does Dad smoke cigarettes, Mum?’ I asked innocently.

      ‘No, of course not. Don’t be silly. You know he only smokes Parsons Pleasure tobacco in his pipe.’

      I also discovered right at the back of the drawer Dad’s prized wartime revolver.

      When he wasn’t on dangerous night time missions in his car it laid in his drawer.

      As a dog returns to its vomit I was attracted to that drawer. When I wasn’t counting the condoms, I played with his gun. Shiny black metal and in another drawer I found live .22 calibre ammunition in a cardboard box.

      Being a young boy, I liked guns, any guns. And this one I swear jumped right into my hand.

      ‘Can I watch that new cowboy show, Mum? It’s called Gunsmoke.’

      ‘Depends what time it’s on, and if your dad approves.’

      I became proficient at loading and unloading Dad’s revolver. When I squeezed the trigger halfway the cylinder turned and the hammer scraped back. And when I pulled the trigger fully back the hammer dropped with a loud click.

      I improvised a toy holster and practiced my quick draw in front of Mum’s new dressing table mirror. Mum, who had no idea Dad’s gun was loaded, would say, ‘You must stop playing with your father’s gun. Put it back in the drawer and go clean your teeth.’

      Some days I took Dad’s gun outside to play. Mostly I loaded it indoors but otherwise I’d become so proficient at loading I did it on the run through the busy London streets.

      ‘Wow! How real your toy gun looks,’ an observant passer-by said.

      ‘Was it bought from Hamleys?’ asked another.

      Little did they realise they were staring down the barrel of the real thing.

      As with our showers and afternoon tea with goatee master I sensed wrongdoing.

      Lucky for me no one I encountered was a police officer. Fortunately these episodes passed without serious incident but as with most boys my age I had a tendency to get a little over excited.

      I never did fire the gun with live ammunition. I thought about it and wanted to, but decided not to because I didn’t know how to clean the gun. Had I discharged it, the weapon would have been returned in less than pristine condition to Dad’s drawer.

      The revolver did get a good work out though along Campden Hill Road, Observatory Terrace, busy Church Street, and all the streets in between. I pointed and aimed at many a passer-by and with the hammer cocked for realism. A slight squeeze on the trigger would have fired it. I pointed Dad’s gun at people and as I did, they played along. They’d put their hands up in the air, or act as if I’d shot them.

      When I ran into Barclay’s Bank in Church Street the manager thought it hilarious. He laughed and put his hands up. Even the tellers played along but no one realised I had a loaded gun.

      Thanks to an over active Luftwaffe in the 1940s there were two bomb sites close by, which proved to be excellent playgrounds for me and my friends. All were envious of me because of Dad’s gun.

      Then one day the unthinkable happened. I dropped it. The gun fell out of my improvised holster and hit the pavement hard as I ran down wild Indians with the assistance of Flint McCullough from Wagon Train.

      The stippled Bakelite handgrip broke into several pieces. This caused a delay during the action. I had to stop and pick bits up off the pavement. I sat on the kerb and realised I would have to own up. There was no way I could cover up an accident of such magnitude.

      Dad listened to my explanation while he tried to fit the bits of his gun handgrip back together.

      ‘It’s like a bloody jig saw puzzle but I do believe there’s a piece missing.’

      I felt really wicked. Dad had never broken any of my toys. He held the gun up to the light to inspect the inside of the barrel. ‘It isn’t soiled. You haven’t fired this gun have you?’

      I was mortified. ‘Good heavens, no!’

      ‘Why not?’

      I told the truth. ‘I didn’t fire it because I didn’t know how to clean it, Dad.’

      Dad pointed the gun away from us towards the wall. ‘This gun is loaded, John. You’ve handed me a loaded gun and you should never do that. You never hand someone a loaded gun.’

      ‘No, Dad. But I’ve never handed the gun to anyone else.’

      ‘You’ve been putting bullets in it though?’

      I thought that strange as I’d handed him a loaded gun. ‘Yes, but they’re all accounted for. I didn’t lose any.’

      He looked uncomfortable when he said, ‘You should never point a gun at anything you don’t intend to shoot. So let me get this straight in my own mind,’ Dad continued between puffs as he relit his pipe for inspiration. ‘You have taken my gun out from my drawer, loaded it with live ammunition and then run around the neighbourhood having a great old time. But you have never fired the gun.’

      I nodded.

      ‘Are you a good shot?’

      ‘I don’t know but I think I could be.’

      Dad remained silent while I went through my abject apology and then he said in a dazed voice, ‘And so you have dropped and broken my gun out in the street.’

      I admitted I had.

      

      I had become a cynical young prat. But in my defence it wasn’t easy going through life with two blocked nostrils and an inflamed instep.

      Our new sports master despaired at my lack of co-ordination. I lived in dread of his helpful hand. He’d hold my torso with one hand his other behind my neck as he attempted to force my head down further to touch my toes.

      Dad was sympathetic. ‘You’ve inherited our family trait. Had our Creator intended us to be able to touch our toes they should have been put on our knees.’

      I envied those with the ability to touch their ear with their big toe, although Dad was quick to point out, ‘Look! I can do it—with someone else’s.’

      ‘Come on, John, you know you can do it. Show him, David,’ our sports master instructed. Well it may have been easy for David to accomplish this simple task, but I had no chance.

      I passed on to more serious stuff like their climbing bars. They were mounted on the gymnasium wall and designed as a style of stepladder. Those with minimal ability were able to climb up and perform swinging motions. A rare and talented few were able to emulate a chimpanzee. As students climbed higher the steps were further apart.

      ‘I think they’ve put the apparatus on the wall

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