A distant call to prayer echoes as the day's intense heat wanes and the land cools. The sun slowly sets behind Muscat's golden, jagged mountains, painting the wispy sky in amber and crimson hues.

At the officer’s mess, the pool lights flicker on, as a young boy emerges from the tepid water, droplets cascading from his skin like a shower of tiny crystals. The surface of the pool settles into a smooth, glassy calm. He tosses a towel over his shoulder and strides toward the patio door, the rhythmic slapping of his flip-flops echoing with each step.

Palm leaves dance gracefully in the gentle breeze, bringing relief at the close of another sweltering day.

The Indian staff in white shirts, black trousers, and red cummerbunds begin setting up tables for a barbecue. The air buzzes with conversations in Hindi and Tamil as they carry trays of meat and salad.

Nizar and Albert from Kerala stack plates on tables. A rumble fills the sky as they pause to watch an Air India 747 climb out into the heavens.

Silently, they follow the red and silver plane as it heads east across the Arabian Sea. Though they don’t speak, their eyes reveal their longing for home—to hold their wives and say I love you, to play with their children in the warm sea at sunset as fishermen haul in their last catch of the day.

Twilight descends as we leave Gordano Services on a warm evening in July 1984. We’ve had shepherd’s pie for dinner, and I popped into the shop for a quick look at the magazines. “Come on, James, let’s get home. You can look at the comics tomorrow when we fetch the paper.” It had been a long drive from Greystoke, Cumbria, to see Nanny and Grandad. Dad grew up in Threlkeld, and Grandad was a signalman. He’s slow now; it’s the cancer from smoking.
 
He stopped a year ago, but the damage was done. There was nothing left to do but prepare, and everyone knew it. I wasn’t totally sure what was happening, but Dad just said Grandad wasn’t well.
 
Dad hasn’t spoken much on the way home. Maybe he’s just tired. We also stopped at Sandbach Services. Dad flicks the indicator on the old beige Rover 2200 as we head west and homeward-bound—Exeter (M5), then it’s the A38, where life slows down.
 
Dad says the faster world begins in Exeter, but I’m glad we live on the slower side. Motorway lights flicker on, and the radio picks up interference from nearby power lines.
 
Avalon plays as I learn my head against the window.

*And the background's fading
Out of focus
Yes, the picture’s changing
Every moment
And your destination
You don’t know it
Avalon*
 
It’s cooling down now as we pass the exit for Weston-super-Mare. I wind-up my window.
 
Dad looks sad, as though there are permanent tears in the corners of his eyes. Mum is asleep. I reach forward and touch Dad’s shoulder. His large, warm hand envelops mine, a squeeze that says, "I love you." I squeeze back. He turns slightly, smiles, and winks.
 
By the time we arrive home, it is pitch black, and as we drive through the estate, something strange happens. The engine falls silent. Dad tries the ignition. Nothing.
 
“Oh… that’s not good,” he says, shaking his head. Lights out. Radio silent. Not a sound from the car. He thinks quickly; there is just enough momentum to take us to the top of the incline.
 
Our house is halfway down the hill, and Dad coasts it down, easing on the brake as he goes. Then he makes a turn into the cul-de-sac and a sharp right onto the drive before braking slowly.
 
Handbrake up, and we are home. We’ve just made it back, and what a final journey it was for our old Rover—all the way from Cumbria to South Devon.
 
Three motorways and one final trip. Dad knew a lot about cars, so when he said, “It’s dead,” I knew it was true, but I still asked anyway, “But Daddy, maybe it can be fixed. It’s only an engine.” He still had both hands on the steering wheel.

“The damage is done, darling. It’s too late now.” He welled up, and Mum and I held him as he sat in the driver’s seat.

“Come on,” he said, “she won’t empty herself.” A chill in the air from Dartmoor as we carried the bags into our house. The stars were out, as were all the lights in the surrounding houses, except one—the Bishops. They were watching telly. Stillness on Brakefield.
 
I was soon in bed, and Mum and Dad came up to kiss me goodnight. As Dad switched off my light, my glow-in-the-dark E.T. stickers on my headboard glowed brightly.
 
“Love you, James—phone home!” he said in his E.T. impression voice, pointing his finger, but I could tell he was sad and fighting hard.
 
“Love you, Daddy… it was a good car, wasn’t it?” I pulled my Star Wars duvet up to my neck.
 
“The best. Sleep now, and we’ll get the papers tomorrow. How about that comic?”
I nodded, and he switched off the light. Down the stairs he went. I heard Mum ask, “You okay, love?” Silence. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were holding each other. The sound of a kiss.
 
I dropped off to sleep. It would turn out to be the last time he saw his dad, and when we left his parents on that warm morning, my dad and Grandad held each other for a long time. but they had to let go so we could drive home, because nothing lasts forever.

Rebels are gearing up to attack the military base. A helicopter approaches from the south-west, but the bright sun makes it hard to see. Tanks are deployed to the hills. Most of the civilian vehicles used as support vehicles were destroyed in the last attack, so they've had to use a large dump truck as a troop carrier.

They take up position to meet the enemy head-on, across the field, past Buddleia Hill, over the rockery with its aromatic scents of mint, parsley, and lavender, and onto the vast, hot concrete plateau known as… the patio.

The rebels are a ragtag bunch, which includes Lego figures (a fireman and spaceman called up at the last minute, both clearly enjoying themselves, as seen from their permanent smiles), three Smurfs (one of which has a somewhat impractical football at its feet), a green Matra Rancho, two Playmobil figures (child soldiers), a Stormtrooper covered in plasticine, and the leader of this motley crew - Action Force’s very own Black Major, who is missing an arm.

A giant creature appears and knocks over a group of soldiers, but by some miracle, they're back on their feet in no time. For a few seconds, both commanders stop to stroke Lucy, the 13-year-old tabby from next door. She wanders towards the shed as the distant sound of "Greensleeves" from the ice cream van can be heard. For a second, the commanders look at each other and smile.

Back to the battle! The dark green-camouflaged soldiers are ready and pour out of the back of the Tonka truck. Some are poised to throw grenades, others are snipers, and some are communicating on radios. There are machine gunners, RPGs, and soldiers permanently on the lookout with binoculars seemingly glued to their eyes. Some soldiers are American, and some are German; it's a real mixed bunch.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a barrage of pine cones and gravel rains down upon them! Casualties are high as the Smurfs resort to hand-to-hand combat. Things are getting ugly.

Lego tanks lie in wait, hiding behind clumps of freshly cut grass. The battle is on! A loud voice from above brings a sudden ceasefire. All the soldiers freeze, as do the commanders:

“Er… boys, no gravel on the lawn, please!” shouts Dad from upstairs.

Mum appears with lunch. After all, even the hardiest of soldiers need a break.

(Image: My 10th Birthday,  just a few weeks before Dad left for Oman.)

It’s a breezy Saturday in March 1985, I've just turned 10, and we’re off to Plymouth for a day out. We pull into the NCP car park in our new car—well, not brand new; it's a 1983 Ford Escort Ghia. I tell everyone at school that it has a computer in it, but it’s just a digital clock above the rear-view mirror. It feels very modern and cosy, although I still miss the old Rover.

The engine died after our trip to Cumbria. We drove all the way from Penrith, and just as we pulled into the cul-de-sac, that was the end of that car. Mummy hasn’t passed her test yet, so when daddy goes to Oman, she’ll have to ask the neighbour to drive us to the big Tesco.

Mummy and I wait in the car while daddy pops off to get the pay-and-display ticket. A strong smell of petrol hangs in the air throughout the multistorey. We’re parked next to a bright orange Opel Manta.

I’m wearing my brown cords and Velcro trainers, plus the Royal Navy jumper  daddy got for me, just like the one he wears. It has patches on the elbows and flaps for the epaulettes. Daddy always says I'm "Smart as a guardsman, not quite as tall.” One day, I might be both.

Soon, daddy will leave for Oman, and I'm  struggling to grapple with that thought. Today, however, we’re here to have a mooch around, grab a bite to eat, and maybe do some shopping.

I'm clutching my dad’s hand as we walk down the car park stairs. I’m going to miss him a lot, but I’m trying not to think about the day he’ll leave.

A bracing breeze blows in from Plymouth Sound, and seagulls circle above the grey, weathered 1960s architecture. It’s not the prettiest city centre; I prefer the smaller towns like Totnes and Salcombe. Still, Plymouth has the big shops, a cinema, and most importantly, a Wimpy.

“Can we, mummy?” I point at it across the busy road. Western National buses spew diesel fumes, and I turn away as a cloud approaches. “Maybe, or how about the fish place?” I wrinkle my nose and smile, “Er… how about Wimpy?” I reply.
“I thought you might say that!”, daddy says. He tickles me and makes me laugh.

We’re all together, and I feel safe and loved. This is what family life should be—it’s all of us, together. Before we eat, we’re heading to Dingles department store; Mummy wants some tights, and daddy needs some shirts for Oman.

From the chilly breeze and into the store, we are met with a waft of perfume. A lady with a big perm hands out samples and sprays customers' wrists with fragrances that all smell the same to me. We live only 17 miles away, but coming to Dingles feels like a different world.

I watch him choose his shirts for Oman and imagine him wearing them, just without us. I picture him sitting alone, having dinner, or perhaps in a car driving along a desert road past camels and mosques, as mummy and I eat roast chicken in our tiny dining room.

Finally, we reach the toy department. There’s a smell of newness reminiscent of sitting in new cars at the tiny Ford showroom in my village. A wall of Star Wars figures, Matchbox cars, board games, Lego, and Action Force greets me—everything smells like  the inside of a brand-new Ford Sierra.

Two boys are eyeing the remote-control cars. The sound of yapping teddy dogs doing summersaults fills the air. A girl plays with Speak and Spell, and a boy my age gazes into a Tomytronic. A talking Teddy Ruxpin entertains nearby. I’m captivated by a Triumph Acclaim Corgi car.

“What have you got there?”, daddy asks, putting an arm around my shoulder.
“Look, it says you can steer it with the wing mirrors.”

“Let’s have a look. Wow, that’s great, isn’t it?” He takes it from me and walks to the cash register to buy it. Thank you, daddy. It’s hard for him to leave and I don't really know why he's going out there. Mummy says it's to help him deal with the loss of his dad, which really confuses me. How would being in Oman help him? Does he not need me?

It wasn’t merely a job; it was, in effect, a form of separation, but I wouldn’t understand that until many years later. I hug my dad tightly, and he kisses me. I stand on the escalator in front of them. I turn, they're standing beside each other but not talking. They love each other; I know they do.

Inside Wimpy, the lights are bright and the air is full of laughter and conversation. A warm aroma of burgers and chips wafts through the air. I order a quarter pounder with cheese, chips, and a Coke, followed by a Brown Derby. The food is served on china plates, and it feels like a special treat—we don’t do this often.

I feel a thousand miles away from our village on the edge of Dartmoor. Just a few months ago, I came here for a birthday party where we made models from flimsy metal ashtrays. “I Won’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” plays in the background.

After lunch, we stroll along Armada Way, but clouds cover the sun, and it’s chilly now. We make our way to The Hoe, passing the lighthouse. Up until a week ago, daddy worked as a Gunnery Officer at HMS Cambridge, just a few miles from Plymouth. The wind howls, and the three of us huddle close together. The sea is choppy. He spots a frigate and identifies it immediately. I remember the time when I feared I might lose him; he was supposed to go to the Falkland Islands in 1982.

The secretary who received his letter forgot to pass it on. The letter said that said he wanted to serve.  I later found out he'd have been on HMS Coventry. Things didn’t end well for that ship or her crew. Fire. Death. Loss. Sadness.  He was angry that he didn't go, but I got to keep my daddy.

In my mind, I hear the theme tune from BBC Panorama, accompanied by haunting images of burnt sailors and explosions on ships—a flash of light, a helicopter amidst thick black smoke trying to rescue people. The music and scenes follow me into my dreams.

I squint my eyes against the wind. It cuts through, hurting my ears. “That’ll be choppy today,” daddy remarks, and I can sense a part of him yearning to be out there. This time next week, he’ll be thousands of miles away.

As we walk back through town, a light drizzle begins to fall, and we pull up the hoods on our rain jackets. My parents hold each other and smile—perhaps all is not lost. An old man plays a mouth organ next to C&A. Three punks with green and orange Mohawks drink beer and dance to the music.

Men gather outside Dixons, eyes glued to the new televisions as they watch the results of the football scores. “Daddy… can I just check the Albion result?” The wind blows the rain sideways and Mum looks tired. The scores are rolling in… come on, please… please… Oh well, lost again. Time to head home.

We return to the NCP car park, trudging up the cold, grey staircase that doesn’t smell too pleasant. The radio hums with static until we’re out of the concrete world. Mum switches on the heater. We pass the bombed cathedral; signs point east—A38, Plympton, Exeter (M5). Soon, the concrete gives way to fields and moorland.

We’re back in our world.

A smell of wood smoke wafts through the heater vents in our car.  As we turn into the estate, I catch sight of  Colin on his BMX, wellies thick with mud.  He waves. Careless Whisper on the radio. Home now: bath time, dinner, and a James Bond film on television. Mummy closes the curtains. I didn’t want this day to end. Daddy leaves for Oman soon. My stomach churns.

Fast forward two weeks, and the day has arrived. I’m busy making a model skyscraper from old cardboard box.

He’s too busy with his bags to really notice, but he glances at it for a moment. I don’t want that moment to end. A white Vauxhall Cavalier pulls up outside—a taxi for Totnes Station. “Daddy has to go now, James.” He stands at the door with his bags while I hold him tightly. A flurry of kisses follows, and I don’t want to let go. The taxi driver is waiting, and mummy is in tears.

The car drives away over the hill. We sit on the settee, holding each other, watching the birds on the lawn washing in the rain. The house is slient, just the sound of the small grandfather clock that belonged to daddy's grandad. It always seems to be raining in South Brent. I look at my toy car and think about the great day in Plymouth.

Daddy's is in a taxi on his way to Totnes station. He'll be in his flat when we're fast asleep. I hope he's thinking of us. Actually, I know he's thinking of us.

I'd just turned 13, it was March 1988 and I'd arrived in Muscat, where my dad was based as a gunnery officer for the Omani Navy. I was at boarding school near Tenby and Dad had been out in the Middle East for 3 years. He was due to leave in the May so we could have a normal family life. We were leaving Wales and moving to Wokingham. I knew nothing about Berkshire, but I just hoped that I could have a dog like the one on Blue Peter. Mum was out there with him for the last few months and I went back and forth to school.

Every holiday, expat forces kids (known as forces brats) descended upon this gated community of swimming pools, club sandwiches, squash and snooker. Most of the officers were from the UK, and every spring, summer, and Christmas, the families arrived for a few weeks holiday. Of course, the country of Oman was stunning, and there was life outside of the military base and officer's mess, but I was a kid and I wanted to hang out with other kids - and one girl in particular. It was a few weeks of fun away from the humdrum of school life back in grey UK. Every kid had two sets of friends - those back in blighty, and their Oman pals.

We weren't a bunch of rich kids - far from it- our dads were in the armed forces and the salaries were nothing to write home about, but they were tax-free and there were lots of perks. Nothing flash, but enough to have a pretty amazing time. Housing, transport, flights, and very cheap food were all provided by the Omani Government.

We'd arrive on Gulf Air or British Airways from Heathrow early in the morning and step out of the 747 or Tristar into the hazy and oppresive heat that hit us with the same intensity as opening the oven to remove the Christmas turkey. Our pasty skin and dreary uniforms were soon swapped with a healthy sun-kissed complexion, a bright-white band of skin sandwiched between the suntan, shorts, tee shirts, and flip-flops.

We lived in the pool most days and our skin always had a hint of chlorine about it. The school uniforms (which we travelled in for some reason) were dumped in a pile as soon as we could take them off. School was something none of us kids wanted to think about, and any homework was delayed until the very last minute, sometimes until on the plane back to London!

Every expat officer on the base, whether army, navy, or air force, was leased a white Toyota, the size of which depended on rank. Leuitenants had Starlets, Leuitenant Commanders, like my dad, had a Corolla, Commanders had Camrys, and Captains had a Crown.

Every car park on the base looked like hundreds of white Toyotas waiting to be loaded onto a car transporter ship, and it was often the case that many Brits would forget their number plate and wander around the car park trying the locks of all the cars that looked identical to theirs! I went to the pool as soon as I could drop off my bag, and although jet-lagged and out of it, the adrenaline was doing its best to fight off the tiredness.

The flats (or bayts as they were known) were simple. Dad had managed to create a little home away from home. These beige two-storey blocks were a hop, skip, and a jump from jumping in the pool. It was at the officer's mess that I'd also made friends with the staff, who were mostly from southern India and central Sri Lanka. The lovliest, kindest people you could ever wish to meet, but they had to put up with a few officers who liked their bevvies a little too much. Arthur, Lopez, Nizar, Vinod, and many more, always happy to see me and I couldn't wait to give them a hug.

My dad didn't know, but I'd often go to their homes and play table tennis and eat jelebi and other Indian sweets. They all had families and sent every penny home. When I was bored of the kids, I'd hang out with them instead, but I kept it quiet.

Most of the expat officers were ok, but you had a few who were part of the 3D club as my dad called them. They were in Oman because of divorce, debt, and many were often drunk, or sometimes they ticked all the D boxes. The saddest bunch though were the adulterers, and my dad knew a fair few. They'd be the ultimate family guy during the holidays, but some of them would be frolicking around with the young nurses the moment they'd kissed their wife and kids goodbye. They'd sit with them at the pool sometimes less than 24 hours after the family had left. It was super uncomfortable for the guys who didn't literally screw around, especially during social events when these adulterers played the game of the perfect family men.

I later found out that my parents were separated during my dad's time out there, but it was kept very well hidden and wrapped up in spin about my dad wanting to work out there for his career. It's funny what later transpires when you put 2 and 2 together, isn't it?

I raced to the officer's mess on that first morning after the flight, towel in hand, snorkel and mask in the other. I left the flat, past the whir of air conditioners on the wall, as the tiny lizards scurried around them. The sweet smell of jasmine, the oven-like heat, and the sound of my flip flops slapping against my soles as I walked across the desert, keeping an eye out for scorpions.

I smelled of airline face wipes, in fact my whole body just smelled of plane. I could still taste the dried scrambled eggs and sense the feeling of descending. I was getting close the Mess, and I heard the sound of laughter and someone jumping into the pool.

Tiny birds chirped with delight as they washed in the puddles created by a hose with tiny holes pricked in it to water the plants by the high sandy-coloured wall. Two Omani officers in their crisp-white dish-dashes walked past me, and I greeted them with a cheerful, "Salam alekum". They smiled and responded in unison, "Wa alekum Salam." I'd picked up a bit of Arabic when I was there and loved chatting to the elders who sat under the tree near our flat, who often invited me over to eat dates with them.

It was good to be back, and as I opened the gate to the pool area, I stepped back into a very familiar world. There, standing on the diving board with her hands on her hips, was Esther, and she made my heart beat faster. She saw me and waved, then elegantly dove into the water with minimal splash.

I kicked off my flip flops and pulled my tee shirt off with one hand. I lowered by pale body into the water, just as a Gulf Air Tristar passed overhead, heading west, back to the grey UK. I swam over to Esther.

"Hey..." I said, wiping the water from my face. "Hey...how's it going?" She said, holding on to the side of the pool. "I'm good...when did you arrive?" I asked, feeling the cool water around my tired body. The whiteness of my skin was so stark in the mid-morning sunshine. "Yesterday. Oh look, there's Lopez, shall we get some Orange Crush?"

And so we did. Two Orange Crushes with straws. We sat at the table under the shade of the umbrella to the sound of splashing, birds tweeting, and footsteps from waiters as the ice in the drinks they carried on the tray clinked against the glases. Esther was watching her younger brother, Sam, who was playing with his snorkel and mask, and I was watching Esther watching him. We sipped on our sugary drinks, laughing, watching the dragonflies darting around the poolside, and feeling very lucky to be here.

I really had a crush...in more ways than one.

It's 6 am on a winter's morning at Totnes station in December 1985. The platform is covered in a hard frost. There's a smell of diesel in the air from the Unigate dairy trucks arriving from the South Devon farms. I hold my mother's hand. We're waiting for the train to Reading, from where we'll take the bus to Heathrow and then fly to Oman to see my dad.

It's mid-morning for him right now in the land of frankincense and dates, and it feels a million miles from this tiny town in Devon. He starts his day with breakfast at the officer’s mess, maybe by the pool and the frangipani bushes. He showed us photos when he was last home, images of camels and Omani elders eating dates as they sat under a tree opposite my dad's flat.

I was enchanted by it all, and I couldn't wait to see this totally different world, but for now, there's an InterCity journey ahead for us. My gloves feel warm against my hands, and I can see my breath. "Look, mummy!" I breathe out and make the sound of a steam train. We've been up since 4:30 am. Mum lets out a loud yawn which echoes down the platform, and it makes me laugh.

Two men in bright orange British Rail vests appear like ghosts out of the early morning fog at the end of platform 1, chatting away to themselves and carrying large tools over their shoulders. They're saying their goodbyes and heading home. "Yeah, see you Tom, ta-ta mate..."

A tired voice across the crackly tannoy: “Train now approaching platform one is the 5:54 service to London Paddington, calling at Newton Abbott, Exeter St. David’s, Tiverton...."

In the distance in the darkness of this frosty morning, I spot the distinctive lights of a 125. Closer and closer through the darkness. There's a hard frost on the platform. We step back as the high-pitched whir of the engine passes by. It reminds me of the spin cycle on our washing machine as an icy chilly wind is sent in our direction. I squint my eyes as the blur of yellow and blue whooshes past us, and I wonder if it's even going to stop.

The slow clickety-clack, clickety-clack as it slows down, a squeal from the wheels. The diesel smell fills the air once more. Mum reaches for the door and struggles to turn the awkward handle. A porter helps us and lifts the suitcase onto the train. I step up into this warm world from the frost and cold of Totnes. The smell of diesel is replaced with something delicious, as someone walks by with a bacon roll and a cup of tea. A strong South Wales accent: "A very good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome on board to those joining us at Totnes..."

The carriage is mostly empty, just a couple of passengers who are sleeping. We have a table seat. I remove my Beezer comic from my red rucksack. We were sent Gulf Air labels with our tickets, so I put them on my bag straight away. Mum is tired and she reaches out for my hand across the table. She smiles at me. "Love you, James." She looks tired and not ready for this journey, but I'm too excited to take it all in.

The station guard is outside our window. "Look mummy, he looks like Grandad." He raises a flag, catches my eye, smiles, and blows his whistle. I see his breath. Goodbye, Totnes. We slowly make our way past the last of the town and into the farmland of South Devon. It's still pitch-black outside, and it feels more like midnight. I spot a dairy truck heading to Totnes, full of fresh milk to be bottled at the dairy by the station. Mum's gone to the buffet car and she's back with two bacon rolls and two cups of tea. We tuck in as we approach Newton Abbot. Hardly anyone boards the train on this chilly morning.

We race through Teignmouth and along the estuary towards the sea. Dawlish Warren is next, but we won’t be stopping. I press my nose to the glass, ready for this impressive stretch of railway line. Into a tunnel as the train guard checks tickets. He makes his way through the carriage, clipping holes in the corners with a “Thank you” and “Change at Bristol…should be on time.” “Morning…lovely…thank you…”

We’re next. “Morning, tickets please…” But just as Mum is about to hand him both, I ask, “Mummy, can I give him my ticket?” She hands it to me, only for me to pass it to him straight away. Totally pointless, but special for me.

“Thank you, young man…” He looks at it closely, scanning it as if it were a passport. He’s wearing a navy-blue cap with a British Rail logo. He steadies himself by holding on to the top of a seat. We’re really creaming along now. The tiny piece of the ticket that’s punched away flies into the air, ready to be vacuumed up when this InterCity is cleaned tonight. “Right…both to Reading, there you go…you are together, aren’t you?” We laugh. He has a warm smile and makes his way to the next passenger.

Aside from the track next to us, it feels like we’re almost on the beach, as waves crash in, spraying into the air. Grey clouds and a grey expanse of sea beneath it, both blending into one shade of grey on the horizon. A lady walks her dog on the pathway that runs beside the tracks. There’s a small fishing boat way out at sea and I wonder what’s happening onboard in the wintery water. I picture the freshly-caught fish and the captain at the wheel.

I drift off to sleep and rest my head on mum’s lap. She strokes my hair as she reads her Jilly Cooper book, and I sleep through Exeter. When I wake up, we’re near Castle Cary and the fields are blanketed in snow. I spot a farmhouse and it immediately reminds me of The Snowman.

We race past a tiny village, across the level crossing as the red lights flash and a Land Rover waits for the barriers to rise. A blur of Christmas lights in a living room window, as another train passes us by and makes me jump. We play I spy, mum has a doze, and I watch the snowy landscape as we race to Reading.

I take out my small sketchbook and felt-tip pens. I start to draw a picture for dad. “Dear Daddy, we’re on the train to Reading.” And I draw a picture of what’s on the table. Two empty cartons of Just Juice, Tracker bar wrappers, Mums’ book, my felt tips, and my Beezer comic.

Just as I finish, there’s an announcement: “Ladies and Gentlemen we will soon be arriving at Reading…change at Reading for services to Wales, The Midlands, and the North, Gatwick Airport, and the Rail Air bus to Heathrow. Reading is your next stop, thank you.” Snowy fields have been swapped with the urban landscape. Life looks busier in this part of England.

More people, more trains, more buildings, more everything. I think about our little house in South Brent and the teddies I’d put in bed. I picture my toys in the room and the Airfix Concorde attached to the ceiling with fishing line.

Jackets on, bags ready, and we head for the door. Brakes squeal and the train rocks with a slow clickety-clack as we approach the platform and stop with a jolt. A man ahead of us pushes down the window, reaches outside, and opens the door. The smell of frosty air and diesel. Mum pulls the black Samsonite suitcase behind her. I have my red rucksack over both shoulders.

The suitcase wobbles from side to side as we weave in and out of oncoming passengers. I hold her hand and we follow the signs for the Airlink bus. Commuters walk briskly in every direction; some are running for their trains as guards whistle echoes across the station. Announcements fill the air, “Platform 4 for the 08:20 service to Gatwick Airport, calling at Wokingham, Farnborough..."

"Mummy, is that us?" "No, we're going to Heathrow with a bus." Oh yes, I'd forgotten that. Still that smell of diesel. We don’t have long before the bus leaves. In and out of the crowd we weave and outside into glorious winter sunshine. There's no snow here, but still a chill in the air. The Salvation Army is playing "Once in Royal David's City.” We're not going to the birthplace of Jesus, but it feels somewhat mystical and magical to be flying to the Middle East at this time.

There it is outside the station, engine on, bags being loaded by the driver. “Mummy, look at the London taxis!” I’d never seen black cabs outside of London before. The bus is very busy, every seat is taken, and I wonder where everyone is flying to. The heating is on, and the bus feels cosy. Mum hands me a Trebor mint from her bag. We’re off, following signs for the M4 and London. The traffic is heavy, as are my eyes and by the time we join the motorway, I’m fast asleep and dreaming of distant lands…

The weather forecast last night said it would be warm today. It predicted 25 degrees and clear skies, and you know what? It wasn't wrong. It's a glorious Saturday in August 1985. I've had my Weetabix and orange juice. I've brushed my teeth. I've watched a bit of Saturday Superstore, but it's too nice to stay in. Mum's sorting out the airing cupboard.

The house smells of Ariel automatic. There's a slight breeze outside as I step into the back garden. Alex, our neighbour next door, is getting ready to cut the grass. He has a radio on through the open kitchen window. "Why... does your love... hurt so much... tell me why..." I like this song and sing along, "la lee la lee la..."
"Hiya, Alex!" "Alright, James? You off out to play?" he says in his Glaswegian dialect. I like Alex—he's just bought a Toyota Celica and lets me sit in the driver's seat. The sound of the Flymo fills the air, and the smell of freshly cut grass soon hits my nose.
There's a light aircraft overhead in the morning haze. I'm looking for my football. It's the third one I've bought this summer—I keep buying the 99p "Shoot" ones with the First Division teams written on the white hexagons. Found it... around the back of the rhododendron by the recently painted panel fence. As I bend down to pick it up, I can still smell the creosote.
Mum opens the bedroom windows and waves at me. Dad is in Oman. We're missing him very much.
"I'm going now, Mummy, see you later, love you..." and I'm out of the garden and down the side of the house. I rub my hand on the pebbledash wall. I can hear my dad saying, "James! Stop taking those stones off!" I find it hard to stop picking them off.
I washed my BMX yesterday. It's sparkling in the morning sun. I ram my football between the frame. The cul-de-sac is coming alive. Two little girls are sitting on their lawn with their dolls. Nick is on his go-cart. I'm off. My slightly damp hair is drying in the warm summer breeze.
Lawnmowers—the sound effect of summer. It's such a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. As I cruise through the housing estate, I feel like the king of the world. I'm wearing my West Brom shirt and shorts, white socks, and Tesco Velcro trainers. I've got 30p in my pocket for sweets, but first, it's time to play.
We're all meeting at the school playing field. Gary and Colin are already there. Gary is in his West Ham shirt, and Colin is in his Spurs goalkeeper top. The other Colin, known as Ayersy, arrives on his yellow and blue Raleigh Burner. He's wearing his Liverpool top—Crown Paints across his chest.
Ollie, Scott, Stewart, Ian, James, and Scott. More kids arrive, bikes dropped on the grass, wheels keep turning.
Tracksuit tops serve as goalposts. The grass was cut yesterday, leaving huge clumps everywhere. A grass fight starts, but we want to play football. Ian and Scott are the captains. The rest of us line up, waiting to be called.
I'm not the strongest player of the bunch at all. I'm in the school team... but the B team. I scored four goals in April, and my dad saw them all. There are three of us left to be picked. Scott looks at us... like a sergeant major inspecting troops.
"Wrenny..." Good. I don't like Ian anyway. We've all brought a ball with us, but most are rubbish. Ollie has a Mitre leather ball. It's not even a debate. The air smells sweet from the pink and white flowers next to the wall of the retirement home. Pass, pass, pass! Man-on! Ohhh, Wrenny!! Pass! Throw in! No, it's still in! That's not out! Foul! Free kick... Oi Scott, free kick! That's not a foul; I didn't even touch you! GOAL!! YESSSS!!! IAN RUSH!!!
And on we went—scoring, throwing grass, falling over, protesting, laughing, and celebrating goals as if we'd won the World Cup.
It's hot. Sweat dribbles down my neck. The front of my hair is wet, and I need a drink. Other kids keep playing, but a few of us leave on our bikes to buy some sweets and drinks from the Post Office—just a 20-second ride.
There's a smell of penny sweets as we enter. Gary's mum, Patsy, works there. "Slowly, you lot, slowly!" she says as we start filling up little white paper bags with sweets. I like the fizzy cola bottles and bonbons, but what I really want is a drink. There's a Panda Pop—I can afford that, plus a few penny sweets. The Post Office is full of sweaty ten-year-olds in football shirts. Our cheeks are red, our hair is wet, and our legs are covered in freshly cut grass. Some of us have grass stains on our shirts and shorts.
We cycle back to the field holding our bags of sweets in our mouths. Some of us cycle one-handed as we drink, while others wait until they're back at the field. We sit on the grass to eat, drink, and talk football.
We play on for a couple more hours until our young but tired legs can’t kick another ball. Slowly, kids started leaving.
The teams changed a hundred times as we swapped players and made up for lost numbers. The score? Something silly like 24-18, but no one really cared. There's a smell of barbecued food in the air.
I'm getting hungry; it's time for lunch. We're down to 4 v 4 and we're out of energy. "See ya later, going home now..." "See you later, Wrenny..." Back on my bike. My tired legs get me home. Cars are being washed in driveways. Still, the ever-present sound of lawnmowers. Richard's brother passes me in his Ford Escort Mexico. The sound from the exhaust makes my bike vibrate. I'm home, hot and hungry.
"Hi, Mum, what's for lunch, please?" "How about we have some pork chops on the barbecue and I'll make some potato salad?" Perfect. "Let's eat in the garden; I'll get the brolly up." Summer days don't get much better than this. I think I'll do it all again... tomorrow.

It was the last day of school before Christmas, and lots of sounds could be heard, even a mouse trap...

Now and then, a special day came along that had me desperate to get to school -  sports day, the school play, and the really special one and even more so than summer - the last day before we broke up for Christmas. Every kid was just desperate for the next few days to fly by, but going into school on that day was a special one because this was when we could bring in their own toys and games. As I left my house in the chilly Dartmoor drizzle, I'd spot the other kids making their way through the estate.

"Alright, Scott, What did you bring?"
"I've got Ker Plunk and Domino Rally, how about you?"
"I've got Monopoly and Top Trumps."
"Skill!" Everything was skill back then.

The weather, in typical Dartmoor fashion, was often gloomy and wet, but that added to the atmosphere in many ways. The village Christmas lights were nothing more than a few colored lightbulbs on a line between the shops, but it still felt magical. There was a smell of coal fires in the air, and as we walked to school, we'd point out all the Christmas trees in the windows.

"Hello, Mr. Eddington, Merry Christmas!" as we walked into the classroom and gave him a card. Some kids had been there for ages and set up their various games, but a couple of the kids were always there early - too early - because they were turfed out and didn't have the best life at home. "Mr Edge" had put some carols on, and it wasn't long before the classroom was alive with the sound of rolling dice, Connect 4, laughter, and kids counting out loud. "1, 2, 3, 4.... I'll buy it!" and "Was it Professor Plum, in the kitchen, with the rope?" Some kids were playing with their Action Men or Sindy dolls, while others brought card games and made dens under the tables.

Everyone handed out Christmas cards, except for a couple of kids who always seemed to be on the periphery of everything—the same kids who were at school before the classroom door was even unlocked. These two had it really tough on so many levels, and there always seemed to be a sadness in their eyes.

We were a mixed bag of kids, but on the whole, we all got along quite well. You had the kids from the farms, those whose parents had a fair bit of cash, the estate crowd (of which I was one), the established local kids whose names went back generations in the village, and then sadly, the kids like Stephen and Donna who just seemed to be there, lurking in the background, never really joining in nor wanting to. They were in our class - but not really, if you know what I mean.

They didn't bring any games with them because they didn't have any, and they wore the same clothes every day, which was evident on more than one level, and some kids would let them know in a very direct way - it was very sad to witness. Stephen (as we later found out) was being knocked about and up to all sorts of unmentionable things. He ended up committing the most terrible crimes you can imagine, which resulted in a very lengthy prison sentence.

We all went from table to table play games, whether it was a long game of Cluedo or a bit of a laugh with Buckeroo. Then suddenly, one kid would rush back from the steamed-up windows. "He's coming! He's coming!"

We all darted to the window, knocking chairs flying and bits from board games. We all wiped the window to see, and there in a very hastily put together Father Christmas costume was our headmaster, carrying over his shoulder an old potato sack. With his cotton-wool beard just about clinging to his face with sticky tape, he proceeded to hand out presents. We knew what was coming, it was the same every year, but we still loved it. Satsumas and nuts, and we ate them with relish. I remember Stephen just wandering around the room, back and forth, like a bored zoo animal doing loops around its cage.

"Thank you, Father Christmas!", we all shouted, and off he went in the Devon drizzle, holding on to his beard with one hand, and into the next classroom. Mr Edge put on Merry Christmas Everyone by Shakin Stevens, and whenever I hear those opening few seconds, I'm back in the classroom with board games and the smell of satsumas. It only amounted to roughly four hours, but what four hours it was.

I was totally split between not wanting the day to end but also desperate to get home, and when we did finally leave, you could cut the excitement with a knife.

As I headed back to my house with my little stack of cards and Monopoly box in a Tesco carrier bag, I really was walking in the air.

Cycling home from Colin's house on a February afternoon back in ’85. Wet leaves along the narrow lanes, naked hedgrows high, a chilly wind from Dartmoor, a smell of snow in the air. Fingers raw. Crows caw under a crimson sky as the distant bells of St Petroc's ring out. A tractor passes by. A smell of manure. Wellies thick with mud. Socks wet.

Along the lanes of South Brent on my BMX, brakes squealing. Scarf up to my nose. Parker hood up.
 
My clothes and hair thick with woodsmoke, we'd made a fire at the end of Colin's field. Icy drizzle now. The smell of fish and chips on Station Rd, the sound of a deep fat fryer.

Through the village and past my school, not a car in sight on Exeter Road, just the bus to Plymouth, all the windows steamed up. Someone somewhere is burning old tyres. The Corona lorry passes me by. No lights on my bike but they're on at the police station. Pedalling faster now. Into the estate, a smell of roast dinner. A thumbs up from Richard’s brother in his red Cortina.
 
Past Scott's house, they’ve got the telly on. Down the hill, braking hard, and home at last. Dad is in the garage fixing the old Rover again. Kicking off wet wellies at the door. Warmth. Grandstand is on, final score. “Albion won” says Mum, “Give Grandad a call later.” She smells my hair. Time for a bath. Vosene. Matey. The sound of a dripping tap. A Stormtrooper and Matchbox car covered in foam. Head under the water. My world is silent for a few seconds.
 
Out. A thick cotton towel. Pajamas. Dressing gown. Downstairs to the phone. Extractor fan on. “Tenby 2392” says the voice on the other end. “Oh Hi Grandad, Albion won!” Mum smiles. Roast chicken for dinner. Dad washes the oil from his hands. “I think it might snow”, he says.
 
And that night, it fell thick and fast. The next day, we sledged until it was dark.
There was more than just snow in the air, there was magic. You could really smell it.