The Games we played 

Then there were the seasonal games; conkers in the Autumn; whip and top (how I envied the skills of Mark Glover and Lennie Way who could belt a top 50yds with a flick of the wrist); metal hoops controlled by a rod and ring (the master here was Bernard Hullin). Summer saw the appearance of glass 'arlies’, these were beautifully coloured glass marbles bought from Steve Davies and played along the gutters to and from school. Windy days saw paper aeroplanes, my brother Colin swearing by greaseproof paper wings. 

     Every other year, the Corporation would spray hot liquid tar (gorgeous smell!) on the streets, throw shovelfuls of small clippings and then steam roller them in. Within minutes of the workmen moving on, hoards of children would descend on the road with little pieces of wood and scrape up the still molten tar on to the ends. A section of wall would be selected and laboriously, one's initials would be painted with the date and the year, hopefully preserved for posterity. In fact, the initials did last for many years and a careful look under the ivy along the church wall in Church Park will be rewarded with the remains of this early graffiti, done 70 plus years ago.

Winter evenings had  magic all of their own. After tea we were allowed out to play for a few hours. The lamp posts in the street were foci for several groups of children, the favourite one being outside Torn Davies the baker's house. Here we were tolerated because Margaret and Elaine (his daughters) played with us. The evening usually started with me calling very respectfully ‘ Please, can Elaine come out to play, Mrs. Davies?’ Permission was usually granted and the girls would join us —Elaine with that lovely smile that always did something to my heart rate! Each lamp-post cast an island of soft, diffuse white light about 20 ft. across, surrounded by the relative darkness of the rest of the street. Within that circle we would group and discuss the games we would play, running out into the cold darkness and then drawn back like moths to the security of the light and our friends. Time would fly and soon it was 8 o'clock and one or more parents would give voice and, in spite of plaintive protests, would round up their charges. The street would become quiet again and the little white islands empty except for the occasional grown-up trespassing upon its territory.