When I Was A Lad
When I was a lad…
A toaster was a long-handled fork with a thick slice of bread on the end,
held in front of an open coal fire 'til your thumb burned and your face turned red.
Then smothered with butter and gooseberry jam, which you didn't like much —
but it pretty well covered the smoke and the soot.
A toaster was a long-handled fork with a thick slice of bread on the end,
held in front of an open coal fire 'til your thumb burned and your face turned red.
Then smothered with butter and gooseberry jam, which you didn't like much —
but it pretty well covered the smoke and the soot.
When I was a lad…
Furniture wasn't bits in a box with an allen key and a piece that won't fit.
No! When you wanted a chair you'd pick one out in a store. The very next day it would come
in a huge van your Dad called a pantechnicon (I loved that word).
The neighbours would stand outside and stare as two strong men
(one to lift, one to swear) sidewised and twisted it in through the door.
You tried not to laugh when they got to the bend in the stairs!
Furniture wasn't bits in a box with an allen key and a piece that won't fit.
No! When you wanted a chair you'd pick one out in a store. The very next day it would come
in a huge van your Dad called a pantechnicon (I loved that word).
The neighbours would stand outside and stare as two strong men
(one to lift, one to swear) sidewised and twisted it in through the door.
You tried not to laugh when they got to the bend in the stairs!
When I was a lad…
You could play in the street; "just up until dusk" was the unwritten law.
Any later, no supper; and maybe the strap if you'd "been told before".
Two or three times a year an anxious mum would raise the village, to look for her son.
They'd wake you and ask you where he could be:
"Prob'ly stuck up the elm by the big red barn… It wasn't me!"
You were sent back to bed and you missed all the fun…
You could play in the street; "just up until dusk" was the unwritten law.
Any later, no supper; and maybe the strap if you'd "been told before".
Two or three times a year an anxious mum would raise the village, to look for her son.
They'd wake you and ask you where he could be:
"Prob'ly stuck up the elm by the big red barn… It wasn't me!"
You were sent back to bed and you missed all the fun…
Ray