Teenage Kicks1
Exploring the miles of narrow brick winterbourne tunnels under our local city, when our lunatic friend, off his head on cheap cider, appeared out of the darkness shooting fireworks at us.
Stood on the harbour wall waiting for the great waves to break. Each time, they showering us with rocks, as, screaming with delight, we were washed off our feet, across the road, and had to grab up at the harbourside railing before we went over the side.
Stood in a field, firing arrows high into the bright midday sun, waiting to see how close we could get them to our feet when they drove into the ground.1,2
22 July 1989
Notes:
1 I do wonder how any teenagers survive, but I suppose a lot don't, and mainly by taking their low understanding of risk into cars. We were too poor, largely, to own cars of any speed (my first car was a Hillman Hunter estate, old even then – it literally had a crank handle, and was so rusted I eventually pushed the clutch through the bodywork and into the road). My old man, who, when he was young, was arrested for scrumping, of all crimes, and got his teeth kicked out by a horse, lost a friend that claimed to be skilled in throwing cigarette butts into old petrol cans, with the inevitable consequences the first time he managed it.
2 Strangely, when we rock climbed, which we often did several times a week, we were always extremely careful. Go figure.