365 Ways With Words

A Cold

I have one. It's not a massive stonker, but it's the first I've succumbed to since leaving Hong Kong. For months I smugly congratulated myself on having been without sniffles, shakes, coughs and sneezes for so long, and I attributed what was perhaps the longest interval in my life between rhinoviral invasions down to two things: lots of garlic and good beer. Thus, I have reasoned that to have caught this particular cold can only be because one thing alone – I now work in a school again.

Schools are notorious repositories of nasty bugs. It's not that children are unclean, or that these places are unhygienic in themselves, rather that contagions thrive in an atmosphere endemic to the sort of place where young bodies' internal defences are immature. It's just easier for kids to get ill. And then they pass it on. Never mind doctors; teachers are front-line troops!

No one loves a cold. It's not that it kills you, but the wearying 5-days coming, 5-days staying and 5-days leaving means there's oh so much misery to go round, no matter how plump the pillows, how hot the lemon tea and how much head-rest is obtained. Food loses some of its flavour, energy disappears and life is conducted never very far from a tissue box.

 

Man colds are obviously worse than the other sort. There's no getting away from the fact that one gender suffers worse than the other, but statistical evidence actually points to women calling in sick twice as much as their male counterparts on account of flu. Of course, quoting that old survey to a sick female partner/wife/girlfriend is to court severe disapprobation, not to say a full blast of disease-laden venom.

So tonight I will try to rebalance the chakras with a dog walk to the pub and a pint or two of a local anti-cold recipe concoction (read 10°Staropramen). I will no doubt spread my mutated virus through the very air I exhale and infect some innocent soul out from the office or home for a few hours. Poor bugger!

What on Earth's That? Oh, it's Nudle s Mákem..

It's lunchtime. The children are patiently waiting for their food, although that does not preclude them getting up, fidgeting, walking about, going to the toilet and generally chattering away as the food arrives. The lovely lady who serves the children arrives carrying cutlery and drinking glasses which a designated helper of the day hands out.

There is always soup. And the children are deft soup-eaters with little or no spillages. It must be genetic – Czechs love soup. So, the soup gets consumed, often with relish. There are no fussy eaters, thank God, like there might be in other classes in other countries. What is served is eaten. In delightful Oliver Twist moments, they regularly ask for more. Then bowls and spoons are stacked, a useful skill for 5-year olds.

And then the main meal arrives. Every day the plates are loaded with one local dish or another; meats and sauces and lots of mashed potato. The quality is generally good. At least, it's certainly better than I remember from my primary school days where each child prayed for chips, hideous mountains of lamb liver remained uneaten, boiled cabbage didn't leave the plate, and if there was no sloppy jelly and ice cream then the pink from the pink buns would be nibbled off.

But then the other day something unexpected turned up: pasta covered in something that looked like grey gravel. Some of the children eagerly anticipated this delicacy, whereas others turned disapproving eyes at the strange fayre – strange to me, that is. Some of them piped up that it was  nudle s mákem. None the wiser, I tasted this terrible-looking food. My face must have disclosed my feelings; they kindly explained that it is made from poppy seeds and sugar. Oooooh!!!...

So, now I am wiser to another aspect of Czech cuisine, albeit a slightly dubious one. Along with nudle s mákem (noodle), which was awful, there is also šulánky s mákem (potato gnocchi or dumplings). And then it gets into weird perverted territory using chocolate and all sorts. I suppose this dish will come around again, and it certainly provokes some interesting responses from Czechs who either love or hate it. School dinners round here are never dull.

A Pub Where You Serve Your Own Beer

It would be fair to say that beer drinking everywhere is a popular activity, for Czechs drinking beer is a favourite national pastime. Czechs top the international league of beer drinkers. On average they drink 148.6 per capita per year (and that includes babies, prisoners and the tea-total!) and it's not hard to believe when one sees how they put it away.

It would be unfair to say that Czechs are alcoholics. Admittedly some do have poor alcohol management, but most appreciate that beer and alcohol in general is merely the oil in the engine of social intercourse, and that meeting and talking is really what it's all about.

In general, Czechs do not drink to get drunk, but they accept that it is at times inevitable; in much the same way that drivers do not drive in order to buy new tyres, but know that to own a car means to also account for new tyres. Czechs drink in the understanding that they'll sometimes (or regularly) have one- (or two-) too-many.

The pivnice (pron. 'piv-nees'), or pub, has become central to Czech culture over the years as more than a place to drink, but also to think and even say anything: before 1989 a good pub was a friendly social venue free from the shackles of communist state control.

The best pubs are the pivovars, essentially brewhouses where the beer is made and accompanied by food (or is it the other way around?). Czechs recognise quality beer when they taste it, and eagerly seek it out at these microbreweries.

But Czechs also drink tea. A čajovna is a tea room, but with a difference. Unlike it's rather stuffy British counterpart with bone china cups and doilies on the cake stand, a čajovna is more of a speakeasy, a place decked out in cushions under low-level lighting, where shoes are removed and the appley smoke of a hookah is shared. Czechs will while away whole afternoons in intimate conversation at such places, but essentially they hold the same purpose—to facilitate relaxed social exchange.

The writer is currently researching Czech beer drinking for an upcoming book on wider Czech culture, and as such has had to visit many-a pub and sample many a-brew. This onerous task has had its upside and many pleasant surprises have been met along the way. Colourful characters abound, their words and behaviour augmented by degree through consumption of their tipple. Of course, truly great beers have been sampled, at amazing locations, and wonderful evenings have been had. But some of the best surprises have been the pubs themselves. Such was the Mamut café in Brno.

Basically a cellar bar, the Mamut café is a large pub with a difference: the patrons pour the Pilsner Urquell themselves. This gimmick revolves around the taps being placed at the tables, and the drinkers deciding how many pints they want to pour. What adds a certain Czech panache to the occasion, is that the TV screens dotted around the cellar displayed the total volume of beer poured per table, making this activity an inter-table challenge! As may be expected, this popular pivnice is frequented by party groups, such as the bachelor/bachelorette party there last night.

This concept works well in principle, but there were a few problems, unclean taps being the most obvious. If a beer tap is not daily cleaned then it attracts the growth of bacteria making the beer sour and potentially poisonous. Such was the explosively emitted first pint. Essentially undrinkable, much of this first pour was drained into the tabletop drain under the tap. The second, the taps having the benefit of a flush, fared better.

It worked well as a gimmick, and the Mamut café is a must-visit on a beer tourist's itinerary, but for socially-minded Czechs it might be just too much. For one thing, it's not cheap at 78 Kč/€2.79 per litre (yes, that may be quite acceptable by international standards, but not in deepest darkest Moravia). Czechs also like to be served, particularly at table, and apart from delivering the glasses and taking a food order and payment, the waiter did little waiting.

So, a pub where you serve your own beer may not be to everyone's taste, but I had to admit it was fun!

Česnekový

                                        Heroic garlic, raw rasp on the tongue,

                                        The acrid acid metal burn beneath the palate

                                        Turn the polévka into nuclear fire

                                        Topinka into life-giving health food

                                        Bulb of power, shining protector of the blood

 

                                        Woven vampire destroyer

                                        In ice-ground-breaking breath

                                        Waves of klobasa mercilessly pound

                                        On unprotected facial extremities

                                        Until the unwilling initiate is inducted:

                                        Succumbing, believing, proselytizing

 

                                        Take, eat, this is my saviour

                                        From the bland, from the inadequate

                                        For as in the prayers of the doubtless

                                        A little goes a long way,

                                        But a lot is never enough

 

                                        Česnekový – garlic

                                        Polévka – soup

                                        Topinka – fried bread/toast

                                        Klobasa – sausage

Soufflé

                                        A soufflé rises; its crown brown

                                        Over-inflated French cock

                                        Too right in its soft ramekin ceramic-bound

                                        To emerge without delay blessed with egged virtue

                                        Sailing soaring in hot air for the pleasure of high hats and ovation

 

                                        Another rises; on a similar ley vein

                                        Pumped-up Parisian erection

                                        Soundless trumpet ringing clear

                                        Heart of kitchen blown in part for fable,

                                        In part domestic pretty Lawson per-square-inch demonstration

 

                                        And if they don’t work, it doesn’t matter

                                        Beat, fold, pour—what’s inedible after all?

                                        At needy course there is consolation enough

                                        In servicewear cleaned blank—

                                        And always give a smile

 

                                        Grow, then, in your confidence and hand

                                        Soufflés are admission to the pleasures of liquid flesh

                                        Doff the chef’s titfa, wipe palms upon the apron

                                        You are, they are, it is—always a job well done

                                        Satisfaction in the giver and receiver

Buying Semtex on the Train

There aren't many places in the world where you can openly buy Semtex, but there's enough of the stuff here in the glorious Czesky Republiky to blow up a train – even this, my train to Prague. Apparently, you just have to ask and they bring it to your seat!

For those of you not in the know, Semtex is one of the Czech Republic's great success stories. First made by Stanislav Brebera at the VCHZ Synthesia chemical plant in Pardubice, a town not very far from Prague, Semtex (pentaerythritol tetranitrate) was so-named after the suburb Semtin at which the explosive mixture was first made in 1964.

The infamous plastic explosive has a long connection with terrorism, partly because it was waterproof, retained its malleability at extremes of temperatures and could be hidden inside tubes of toothpaste and such like, and partly because it was so difficult to detect. It was used extensively in the Vietnam war and was imported by the ton into Gaddafi's Lybia. It is because of these admittedly negative associations, sales of Semtex have recently been strictly controlled by the government. So, no worries there then...

Semtex, the drink, however, is much more dangerous. Although it may not topple a government building if left to explode in the basement car park, it has a blast of caffeine, an explosion of massive sugaryness and enough taurine to... well, what exactly does anyone want with taurine? Apparently, the average omnivore requires just 58mg per day, although the little drink on this train has 400mg! So, according to online sources (read Wikipedia) this will be of benefit if I want to keep epileptic seizures away, improve my heart function and a whole host of other healthy things. All well and good, but perhaps I shouldn't have ordered the coffee on top – this train sure feels fast! And it's so hot! Why do I feel the need to go for a run?

My train careens through the soft early summer Bohemian landscape on its way to Prague, passing Pardubice and the Semtex factory. As the excitable effects of this heady sweet cocktail begin to subside, I can satisfactorily conclude that both kinds of Semtex are things probably best left to the experts. Until now I wasn't aware of any situation in which 'performance drinks' and high explosives could be safely mixed, or even that my taurine levels might require upping, but perhaps all the unhealthy beer I have been downing since my brave expedition into this beautiful land has dulled the senses. Pass another Semtex...

Hangover

                            Witness the witless, exsanguinations through the diamond night

                            Spilling guts, shedding emotion, voiding sense, dragging hearts

                            Harrying poor circumspection until it is driven, beaten, withered and accursed

                            Away into the starry skies, from whence it came –

                                Those majestic static pin eyes; white-black forever forms

 

                            Each drink hangs before a prey, the lucky ones spill, the chase is on

                            Limitless fun, all worn frowns delivered, the delicious exorcist is possessed

                            Care trounced, belts sag a notch, and bra straps tilt from a mindless shoulder

                            Silly smiles become the norm and deaf-tipped tongues shout favoured lines –

                                As unimaginably imaginable; stuck needle never nudged

 

                            And shall we go next; to wake the poor sods upstairs?

                            He with her, her with her, he, alone, again and again

                            Such punched-drunk power, sour in all perpetually desolate beds

                            Kicked shoes, kicking kick the damned night's end –

                                Mother sleep the enemy takes down; bringing back tomorrow all that was gone

It Started With a Shandy

Well, it all started with a shandy. I can remember it clearly: there I was, as happy as an eight-year old can be, at my aunt Carol's wedding, when my uncle Jim poured me a lemonade shandy. Cool and refreshing. So nice. Of course, as an eight-year old I could have had no idea –none at all– about where my life was going, or about the terrible path down which I'd go. All because of this innocent looking drink. I'll tell you.

I like shandy. It's fun. I took it like a coke or fanta, but it has a slightly bitter taste to it. I drank it a bit, now and again, when there was enough beer and lemonade in the house. Sometimes dad would shout. I cut it 50/50 most of the time. But then one day there was no lemonade. My dad suggested I add a drop of lime cordial. I did it, but the effect was different. You see, there I was sitting with the family and drinking a sort of lemony beer. It was great. Unfortunately, I'd developed a taste for it. In fact, little by little I began to cut out the lime. I'd go to the fridge at the end of the school day for a can or two of normal beer. Man, that was sweet, I can tell you now.

It wasn't long before I was also trying out other drinks – alcopops, Bacardi Breezers mostly, although I was quite happy to try others. Each taste was new. I'd scan the aisles at the supermarket for ones I hadn't tried before. When they noticed, and they were taken out of the shopping, I would find other ways to get them – even made my own, went round to friends' houses, took them without paying. By the time I'd finished primary school I had got onto mixing my own cocktails each day. Got quite good at it, too.

This was pretty much how things began for me. I reckon I was an alcoholic by the time I was 10. Also, it wasn't long before I was in school hanging out with the bigger girls and smoking. They liked me. I took to smoking with ease. There was something about it – made me look older, gave me a stylish sexuality and carried the promise of forbidden fruit. I quickly caught the attentions of older boys. I would let them kiss me for a cigarette. It wouldn't be long before I was getting into snogging, fondling and fingering. It was so very exciting. But I got caught. It was after school and I had stayed behind the gym with two boys, Mark Flaherty and Jason Wilde, who took it in turns to kiss and fondle me. The headmaster Mr Baker said I was a 'pernicious influence' and had to be removed. So, I swapped school but did it again there too. I learned how to give blowjobs for little favours – cigs, bottle of cider, money. That last one, money, really helped. I got to buy clothes and make-up and got noticed a lot going out. I even made it under the radar into the clubs from time to time where I could really cause a stir on the floor.

But it was there I met Alex, who wanted to take me home. I let him. I already knew he was a dealer, but didn't realise just how bad things would get. Pretty soon I'd moved out and was living in his flat – overlooking the river in real luxury. He would have parties and invite all sorts of crazy people over. Some of them were stars: celebrities off the telly and people in the public eye. Really famous, but I can't say who. I'd be killed. There'd be lines of coke, and ketamine, and even worse. I knew he was a junky, but didn't know quite how far it had got for him. I took smack too, and knew how to shoot up. Anyway, we traveled all over: America, Africa, even Australia! He had these connections, you see. And everywhere he went, he wanted me to come too. More than once we'd have breakfast in London, lunch in Paris and then fly somewhere else for dinner. New York, Amsterdam, Rome, Milan: he'd take me shopping and we'd sit drinking wine in restaurants. It was unbelievable!

But to keep all this going we had to keep business running. And I had to support him – answer the phone, arrange meetings, that sort of thing. He had his dealers, who kept their patches in order.  Sometimes they needed help when others tried to muscle in. On more than one occasion we'd be off in the Bentley to 'sort out' a problem – that usually meant packing some sort of gun. It was scary, I can tell you. But he knew what he was doing, even if it meant war. There were nights we only just got out alive. Afterwards we would laugh about it, count the money and make love. I never felt so alive.

But it all changed one morning when I found him dead. We were in a hotel in Mayfair, and he'd taken too much. Dealers should never shoot, so everyone says. I got depressed. Ended up in rehab. The bed next to me had Any Winehouse in it. We got on like a house on fire. She would tell me all sorts of little private things – things I can't reveal here. In fact, I swore I'd never tell, even if she died. They go to the grave with me.

And then she died. It wasn't long before I was looking for a way out. I found my way to India and looked for a guru, like the Beatles. I found one, on the banks of the river Ganges. I learned to meditate and read the scriptures. It was a wonderful time where I felt I was really getting back to the real me – who I was as a person. Oh yes, I thought, this is it. And I went with the guru up to the mountains and would sit together watching the sunrise. But then the war broke out – between India and the neighbouring country. So I had to leave. I cried, I don't mind telling you.

And then I found myself back here. With you. Oh there's so much more to tell, but like I said, it's all because of my uncle Jim giving me a shandy. And I don't mind if you buy me one too.

Avocado Kills Dogs

Rain fell. That was unusual. Californian July: zero precipitation. Always. And yet here it was. Not heavy, just drizzley, foggy ocean misty rain.

On the corner of Chestnut and Van Ness, the café brooded in an unambiguous mundaneness. There were more inside because of the unexpected weather – all shorts and steamy plastic macs. The few that waited at the bus stop looked longingly at the little eatery and its line of customers. Should they? Even for a take-out? Would there be time?

And in the melee by the counter, picking up a coffee and toasted sandwich, was Mrs DeLouche. She had come late for her regular, being delayed by Frou-frou, the pink and yellow-dyed poodle. Old as her mistress, and with as many medical complaints, she nevertheless dressed for the day with dandy style and aplomb. Frou-frou had been occupied by a particularly interesting smell sprayed by a thoroughly ill-behaved puppy dachshund called Maxi who had eaten lots of tasty mold-covered beets from the garbage. This information was conveyed in its entirety over the course of more than half-a minute. Frou-frou had been tugged on the leash, called naughty (and worse), and given the wagging finger and strict ultimatums. Finally, after the interest began to wane, Frou-frou permitted a continuation of their normal lunchtime route, her thoughts filled with interesting and new ideas.

Behind the counter, Alfredo did his thing: smile, request, order, smile, clarification, money, change, smile, service, smile. He was working as fast as he could, considering the backlog of newbies on top of regulars. His companion, Carrie, did the coffee and tea and any other drinks, along with service to the few tables by the large street-side windows. She smiled less, but moved with grace, occasionally tossing her long braided hair over her shoulder with such ferocity that she sometimes had to apologise to the whipped recipient. They usually didn't mind, because there was something about her that exuded charm and open-heartedness. And the guys loved her because of her un-brasierred large breasts that occasionally wobbled around in their voluminous t-shirted abode above the full table-cleared trays and milk shake deliveries.

Busy and getting busier, the two functioned as best they could, setting to their orders perfunctorily, yet with a deliberate no nonsense business-like attention. The blt sandwich, the tomato soup, the caesar salad, the tuna melt – all done one thousand times before without mix-up or deviation.

It was to Carrie that Mrs DeLouche would always first seek attention, even if the moustached Alfredo was ready to serve. Her 12:30 coffee had already been prepared, but was now too cold to be served at 12:47. Glancing over, Carrie's genuine greeting gave the cracked jowls of the elderly spinster a decidedly happy smile.

"My-my! The weather! And you wouldn't believe the trouble I've had with her this morning." She was ready to reveal the story of her umbrella-accompanied walk down Chestnut, but was interrupted. The line of newbies went through the door.

"Your usual, Mrs DeLouche? I'll do it myself." She always did it herself, but the words, the same that she had uttered yesterday and the day before, sounded like a special favour granted by the head chef.

Accidents will happen. From the counter a loose demi-baguette, complete with Avocado mayo and cheese, had been knocked off to spill its contents in a messy splat by their feet. Quickly picked up and binned, some of the more squishy contents had nevertheless found their way beneath the chill cabinet. It was upon these delicious remnants Frou-frou set to with abandon. By the time Mrs DeLouche realised what was happening, it was too late and her lunch and coffee were already in her hand.

About to wend her way past the line and out into the unseasonal weather, she noticed a young couple get up to leave. Pushing her way past a man with a long beard (she hated beards) she took the chair whilst it still had the man's jacket upon the back. Frou-frou sat beneath the table, still licking her tiny chops. Mmm... Avocado mayo really was delicious.

Mrs DeLouche said some instructional words to Frou-frou, placed her wet umbrella on the table top and opened up her take-out coffee to release the familiar lunchtime aroma. It wasn't that she disliked eating out, but with hands full of a leash, umbrella, paper bag and coffee cup, it had been a struggle to get even to this table. And, besides, privacy was privacy. Particularly when it came to eating.

Three sips in, and ready to unveil her toast, the reaction happened. Frou-frou coughed. Nothing serious; nothing but a sneeze really, but it was more than mere irritation.

"Now now, you keep quiet, you." She mumbled, looking around at the young people on the table in front of her tucking in. "There's good people in here, and they don't need you messin' up. D'ya hear?"

But Frou-frou continued the sneezing and wheezing. It progressed. Eventually, the little dog was coughing quite vigorously, and it became clear that there was either an obstruction or reaction happening.

"What's wrong, Frou-frou?" she asked, picking up the shaking coloured body of her sole companion and staring in her cloudy eyes. On her lap the quivering Frou-frou coughed some more. There was obviously a little discomfort in her breathing. She coughed again, then she spewed, without the usual gut-wrenching spasms. It was obvious, from the oily contents upon her summer blouse, that the ingredient had been avocado.

There was an audible "Iww!" from those in the line with a ring-side seat.

"What-what? What's this?" She tearfully asked, holding the dog before her, quite unable to believe the dreadful scene.

Alfredo excused himself and came over to the window with a generous handful of tissues.

"No-no-no! Not you." She remonstrated. In truth it was the moustache. "No-no– her." She indicated to Carrie with her back turned, her voice given an extra-intense crackle with the stress of it all.

Leaving the tissues, he returned to serve the customer. Carrie came over with two large pink strawberry milkshakes, delivered them and then turned her ministering attentions to the elderly woman. "Let me..." she said, taking Frou-frou from her hands. Placing her on the floor, she proceeded to gently dab the old woman's blouse to recover the sticky voided stomach contents as best she could.

"It's avocado, ain't it? That's poison – poison for dogs. Avocado kills dogs, you know? You left poison..."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mrs DeLouche." she said beautifully, with the warm tones of a Mary Magdalene. "Don't worry about it. Really. Some dogs react like that, but it doesn't kill them. Honestly."

"But I've been told. Avoid avocado. It kills 'em." She looked down, "My Frou-frou. And grapes, chocolate, the dark kind, and nuts..."

The rest of the service continued operating at half-steam. Some of those waiting gave up and left for the diner opposite, taking their dollars with them. But Alfredo knew it was all right. Carrie knew it was all right. For now, convincing an ancient regular of the mild effects of avocado toxicity in canines was more important.

"It's ok. She's fine now. Look at her. She's stopped her coughing now." Indeed, the pooch was standing as usual, without so much as a trembling muscle, peering at the particularly hairy legs of the nearest customer. "Let me get you home."

Carrie took the lady's hand, her umbrella, her coffee with lid, and her carefully re-packed toast sandwich and led her outside. The three of them walked over the crossing in the lightening rain and steadily ascended back up the steep hill of Chestnut to her bow-windowed wooden house – the only painted lady on the street. When the old lady had changed and was sat in her kitchen contentedly eating with Frou-frou lying by her feeet, Carrie took the spoiled shirt back with her to later hand-wash, and prepared to busy herself finishing the service. Firmly closing the door, she rhythmically jiggled as her soft feet carried her full form down hill to her regular place behind the counter.

The Bitter Taste of Lemons

The worst was the eldest – the boys’ sister. Her serious matter-of-factness manifested itself into a determined streak. Whither she went, they would all follow. If she wanted a drink, they each took a glass. If she threw rocks at passing cars, they all got into trouble. If she watched Doctor Who, they would all sit trembling. If cushions were piled for somersaults and dangerous long jumps, so they all become willing and daring acrobats. It was not leadership. It was not coercion. It was sibling affection; warm and fresh and free every time.

Under the humming fluorescent striplight, the children assembled in the kitchen around the big square table with the blue and white check Formica top and splayed spindly legs. Mum was out.

What had began as a party game had developed an unnerving edge, an incautious and uncontrolled voyage into experimentation with the sense of taste. Each of them felt less and less sure of the direction this might take. But rules were rules. And with no adult present, not only would there be the opportunity for unbridled fun, but there would also be the opportunity for cruelty. They were two sides of the same free-spinning coin.

It was only days before that their cherished new puppy, a black poodle-cross, had been gleefully tormented. A naturally pleasant beast, it had responded obediently to chocolate rewarded calls to ‘stay’, ‘roll over’, ‘sit’ and ‘come here’, only that the last command was astonishingly rewarded by their sister with a pin between the fingertips, so that as the pup’s muzzle approached, it winced and yelped – at first to hers, and then all their delight. Over the years the poor dog often became similarly baited, but kept its tail wagging temper whenever the children appeared.

They cycled through the park – the four of them, but she always led. Their second-hand Christmas bikes made a metallic chattering snake that would wound around the trees, slide up and down the tricky mud embankments, cross the wide open bumpy football field and then made the twilight journey back home across dangerous roads at red lights. They had friends that they would all meet together, their gang, but in their pursuit of further pleasures the three of them would conspire to leave the youngest behind, his needy and tender extra-youthfulness being tiresome baggage.

The big long slide in the park proved the temporary parting of their ways. A matter of four years meant all the difference between ascending the long steps to the cage at the top, from which the entire world could be seen, and allowing the little be-shorted legs the confirmed security of the steady ground. For three of them, this ascent also carried the joy of separation and lengthy stops to talk maintained the power affirmed by distance. There was also the view. From its lofty heights the busy dual carriageway road could be observed over the park’s yellow London brick wall. Beyond still were houses and gardens, washing lines, trees and rooftops – other people’s fascinating lives.

At the bottom the little one would wait, supporting his bike because he hadn’t learned to stand it up properly. He was patient, up to a point, calling up to them to come down so that they could play together properly: they could swing, they could go round on the witches hat (as long as it wasn’t too high or too fast), spin the roundabout, rock the long horse, or merely see-saw. Or, best of all, they could go exploring – that nebulous searching activity where ‘things’, such as treasure, mystery objects and even money, might be found. But they liked the cage and the detaching power it gave them. As they sat and talked in whispers, so he stood and watched: smiling, hopeful, and as enthusiastic as the new puppy.

But all such lofty pleasure must come to an end, and so the three would descend the long, dangerous chromed slide. Sometimes they would come down singly, the girl’s short skirt sometimes blowing up with the descent, a show she curiously enjoyed. Sometimes with their legs linked around each other’s waists, and sometimes, if feeling particularly daring, they would go headfirst. The scariest was to go down headfirst on their backs: only true and fearless masters of the slide could contemplate such valorous deeds. As raindrops would squeal their descent into a thigh-burn, so sand from the baby’s sandpit would add speed. Their mettle up, the brothers would raise their feet into the air so that the shiny seats of their shorts would give the run an expert buffering. Then all the local kids would queue up to skid off the end, some bumping painfully onto the rears, thereby providing a full afternoon of unbroken hilarity.

The game itself was simple. A scarf was tied around the head so that vision was completely obscured. Then the victim would be permitted to taste whatever he or she was fed. This party game was supposed to be fun – a way for children to take note of their senses, and to engender trust. Unsupervised, it ran into the rocks of power, or, more properly, those that wielded it.

First up were the boys. They set about finding simple things: a corn flake, a drop of ketchup, a celery leaf. Then, swapping the scarf, they tried cake, a slice of onion, and mustard. All of it had to be eaten. Those were the rules. With each focused mouthful, carefully fed on a spoon, there would be squeals of disgust or delight. The little one saw all this with eve-widening eyes, for he knew he would be next – onion, mustard? They were horrific assaults on the senses!

The scarf was too tight. He couldn’t see. The loss of eyesight was at once alarming and physically restricting. He tried to see down his nose, but they knew what he was up to. No cheating! It was tied even tighter. Now he was scared and really didn’t like this game.

First up was Marmite. Well, that wasn’t so bad. He liked it on his toast. Next was a wedge of lemon. He’d never touched, let alone tasted, a lemon – not even of the candied variety. He’d seen them all squirt lemon juice from the plastic lemon over their pancakes on Shrove Tuesday when mum had made thin, sugary pancakes, but he’d never dared touch the stuff. Lemons were unbelievably scary things, full of face-turning acids and tongue-curling sharpness – things to be avoided at all costs. After all, pancakes were better with jam, or more sugar when no one was looking.

The thin garnish sized wedge was spat out as he pulled down his scarf to howls of derision. You’re supposed to eat it, they teased, knowing he would never ever do such a thing. Tears began to well. They were poisoning him. He burned – revenge, somehow, had to be exacted. She would pay.

He still had one more turn, but by this point, the two older boys were bored and irritated and so wandered off to turn on the TV in the lounge. The scarf was duly tied tight again and the last endurance of tasting commenced. It was different: a creamy texture, and salty, but was also sour like vinegar. Still tasting it on his tongue, he pulled down his scarf again, his tolerance over. His sister happily showed him the jar of sandwich spread. It might as well have been fresh dung. Rushing over to the sink, he horrifically spat the remnant out and rinsed the bitter flavour from his abused mouth. Sandwich spread – what manner of evil is this?

After much coaxing, she had to be unwillingly dragged back from the lounge. Her interest, like her smile, having waned she knew if she got it over and done quickly enough then he might shut up and leave them in peace. He tied the scarf, as tight as he could, not knowing how, and then set about his villainy with glee. She would suffer for the taste of lemon and the sandwich spread. From the fridge he fetched his sample and placed the spoon upon her lips. He could tell she was frowning, even beneath the scarf. What was it? She tasted, she thought, but it didn’t taste of anything she had known.

The back gate heralded the approach of mum. As the door opened, she stood still, seeing the foody mess on the kitchen table. They’d been up to something. She was just in time to see her little boy feeding his blindfolded sister with one hand, and holding a tin of cheap co-op dog food, their puppy’s only sustenance, in the other.

NO! she cried, immediately freezing his actions, startling his sister to flee retching into the toilet and rapidly drawing the two brothers from their TV slouch. His revenge may have been served, but now he’d have to pay. He wanted to explain to a sympathetic ear about the poison, but apparently it was he who had done wrong. He wanted to insist his actions were justified, but despite his howling protestations of lemon and sandwich spread, she firmly took their side: Dog food is not for humans. You must not treat your sister this way. Look at this mess. I’ve only been gone five minutes…

The bitter taste of lemons held fast all that day. He would glower when he thought of it, even when she wasn’t around. It held in his mouth for the remaining year. It never departed.