We took the same route every Sunday. My Gran had to drag Bazil out of the front door, he was so fat. The hill we climbed seemed so far away from the cosiness of my Gran’s front room. The wind often gushed it’s way through your jumper, duffle coat and into your bones, leaving your teeth chattering and lips blue.
The curvy path approaching the hill, ran adjacent to the M56 motorway. We could hear the distant roaring of plane engines from the airport. My Gran often stopped to listen and look up, as giant like shadows flew over our heads. The dog often escaped off his lead and my sister scurried after him. She was scared that he would drop off the edge of the hill and get squashed by the motorway traffic below.
As we made our way along the path, I remember the small playground. What remained of the play area, after the local kids had vandalised it, was a battered seesaw, a red wooden merry go round, blue swings, their rubber seats hanging off and a multi-coloured climbing frame. If you happen to meet with an accident, there was always the green spongy rubber flooring, there to catch your fall. I always felt nervous as we got closer to the playground, as youths would often hang out there. I feared for my Gran and sister as the youths kicked dirt around and underneath their feet.
At the time, I wished we’d had a huge black lean Doberman, that could show it’s snarling teeth and protect us. Instead, all we had was a fat, helpless Dash-hound, that was more interested in getting back home, to sit in front of the gas fire, on the fluffy brown rug.
When it reached 7pm we used to head back home, making a brief stop at the shopping parade. At the ‘one stop shop’ my Gran bought her usual ‘Benson and Hedges’, and a can of strong stout for my Grandad. We would either opt for a our favourite chocolate bar or a bag of crisps, not forgetting my aunt’s request for a bag of ‘something’ sweet.
The square green that my Grandparents house was situated, had the normal ‘No Balls Games’ sign, cemented in one corner. I hated walking across the green, mostly because I didn’t want my polished blue shoes to get dirty. Also, for the fear of treading in dog dirt.
Similar to most dogs, Bazil, seemed to always wait until he had reached the edge of the green, where he’d squeeze out a terd, just in time for when my sister was tucking into her chocolate. I heaved at the sight of this, and placed my hand over my mouth as my Gran appeared to touch the terd with her hand, as she cleared it away with a plastic bag.
One of my Grandparents neighbours was a lovely lady, named, Mrs Shilling. She would always run out to greet us at her gate. My Gran told us that her teeth had turned into currents because she ate too many sweets! Emma and I loved her as she always gave us sherbet and lollipops.
Once inside the house we settled down to an evening of Sunday night telly, consisting of ‘Last of the summer wine’ - ‘Blankety Blank’ and ‘Tales of the unexpected’. My aunt would often bribe us to into tickling her feet. How easily pleased we were . A 10 pence mix, sherbet pops, and 50p for painting my aunts toenails. Grandad would flick the channel to the nine o’ clock news. Emma would secretly feed Bazil a caramel, and smile as he struggled to chew. Eventually my aunt had to prise his jaw open to retrieve it.
The ‘wash-house’ as it was called, always had an intense smell of bleach. The dog used to do it’s ‘business’ in there. My Gran had to regularly scrub the floor. I always wondered why Bazil was not properly house trained. He would often drop a terd in the front room. Emma and I hated this, and we used to hide in the kitchen until it was cleared up.
Bedtime, was one dilemma after another. My sister and I used to fight for the side of the bed, free of lumps! "You’ll have to top and tail" my Gran used to shout. A restless night lay ahead. Gran and Grandad’s snores synchronised. My face itched from the dog’s short fur. About to doze off, I often felt something licking my toes. "Oh no!" my sister used to scream, "he’s not getting in the bed next to me!"