Getting Older

Now I began to grow skinny and tall.
One of the highest in the assembly hall.
In those days my hair was long and blond,
Of barber shops, I was none too fond.

The money I earned on my paper round
Was handy for clothes, as I left the ground.
We, at that age, didn't ask girls for dates,
Better roaming the countryside with mates.

I remember swimming with my dad;
Not a good swimmer, but not too bad.
From a boat in the Orwell, swum to the shore.
Happy, war, who could ask for more?

Across the sand trickled a little stream,
Full of ezvers, quivering backs a golden sheen.
Back to the boat for the bailing tin,
What better place to put the ezvers in?

When we got home; fried them, put on toast.
Gave me some, but he ate the most,
Often now I would look at my sis,
Monday's movies with mum, wouldn't miss.

The routine now both of us knew,
Get to town, join in if a queue.
In those days most were suitable flicks,
Not blood and thunders, just for kicks?

Mostly these treats were on a Monday night.
Around about seven mum would loom in sight,
She always carried with her, her favorite thing,
In a brown paper bag all wrapped with string.

Shuffling forwards towards the doors in a queue
Perhaps mum greeting some other she knew.
Into the cinemas, before the program begun,
Sister on one side, me on the other, in the middle, mum.

Ads would begin, then perhaps a documentary.
Cartoons perhaps, the Pathe news, entertainment aplenty.
Now mum would open her little treat,
Shell the 'money nuts' and proceed to eat.

By the time the "B" movie was over and finished,
The bag was almost empty, her treat diminished.
"Let's move" would say mum, as the cinemas lit,
"I think we'd do better forward or back a bit".

Sis and I knew the routine so well,
The place sat; floor covered in shell.
Forward or back we moved with great poise,
Avoiding the shells, for they made so much noise.

If a newcomer, finding their seat,
Cracking mum's shells beneath their feet.
Then the main movie would come on the screen,
Romantic, dramas, in places mum's never seen.

Things happened with which boys could hardly cope.
Government took rationing off household soap.
Now the excuse, used for so many past years,
Saving soap, not washing behind our ears!

Girls in our class started growing in places,
Ensuring us boys never looked at their faces.
This gave us lads other interests;
Stopped hunting small birds nests.

The girls stopped too, playing with toys,
Only now they only fancied older boys.
About this time 'the Festival of Britain' was on,
The school took all us senior boys along.

A photo of us boys, in flannels and a jacket;
I bet that trip cost our parents a packet.
Remember the shot tower and the 'Skylons'?
Just like the bomb later, they got it all wrong.

Hardly recall that day in the capital city,
All the lads there, lost touch, was a great pity.
All of this was in 1951,
Another year at school and I'd be done.

Another celebration in Christchurch Park,
Dressed as medieval peasant, that was a lark.
Now I began to dwell on my future life,
Only thing certain was I'd take a wife.

Already at school we'd been given the tip,
Us lads could forget an apprenticeship.
Of course, unless your dad was in a trade,
Then twas likely, you would have it made.

Dad a docker, education exceedingly poor.
Certainly didn't want to be a stevedore.
Not for me a life of carry wood and sacks;
Being killed by dust, with aching backs.