There was a time when one Jaffa Cake wasn't enough. When one wasn't enough of anything. When very young to this life I had an appetite for it; when that hunger spread to everything.
There was a time when under ten, and alone, you could walk to the shops and buy a can of pop and some sweets. When a fifty pence piece or a pound coin was plenty of pocket money.
There was a time when you could play in the streets, or if on holiday walk to the beach with your cousins, and return home for dinner. When the danger wasn't necessarily less or the community better, but when children were allowed to explore, a little further from their own front door, without parental supervision. When children were trusted.
There was a time when grandparents were more grandparents than parents. When they had more of the joy of grand-parenting than parenting. When children were angels with their grandparents and devils with their parents.
There was a time when my maternal grandfather wore short-sleeved cotton shirts and pullovers with leather elbow patches; when my paternal went everywhere wearing his trilby; my father his flat cap. When my maternal grandmother pinned a brooch to her dress and sprayed scent; when my paternal wore a fur stole and pearls. When my mother's hair was kept away from her face with hair combs, when she also wore clip-on earrings with her smart office wear. A time when her hair was later dyed and bobbed, then dyed and cropped short.
There was a time when shops were closed on Sundays. When my working father complained nothing could ever get done at the weekends! There was a time when this changed, little by little, so now nothing stops.
There was a time when back-seat passengers in cars didn't have seat belts. When I could lie full-length along the seat, the car in motion, and sleep, or lie awake and feel the wheels rolling under me, and under them the bumps, the holes in the roads. When I could travel, for fun, in the car boot with the dog. When seat belts became law, there was a time for car games and walkmans.
There was a time when long distances were driven to Devon, to Dorset, to Wales. When a ferry was taken to France. When holidays were spent with grandparents, uncles and aunts, and cousins. Where bedrooms were fought over and pools splashed in. Where walks were a prerequisite, on which a pub would usually be found and stopped at. Where a cream tea was looked forward to: the adults, the scones; the child, the grated cheese sandwiches cut into triangles.
There was a time when eating out was a treat, an outing. When a takeaway was a rare break for the cook from the kitchen. That time has passed for many.
There was a time when I let myself in with my own key and made my own dinner. When I waited, whilst doing homework, for my parents to come home, weary, from their jobs in London, where later they would doze in front of the telly.
There was a time when bedtime drinks were milky. Hot milk. Cold milk. A mug of, with honey. A glass of, with chocolate digestives. When a song was sung sleepily, legs heavily going up the stairs. Or when I was carried up by two strong arms.
There was a time when...
There was a time when the world was different. Different to my grandparents', different to parents' day. When it was my day.
There was a time before glasses were worn and a time after. There was a time the mind was a child's, and a time it was neither child or adult, and a time, a long old time, when it was all adult.
Picture credit: Clock, 1914, Marc Chagall (source: MarcChagall.net).
Written May 2020.
