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I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack, How I loved those Wednesday evenings, The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps, The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair During the mass meetings, The solemnity of my enrolment, Being helped up a tree by an older boy, Baloo, or Kim, or someone, To win my Athletics badge, Winning my first star, my two year badge, And my swimming badge With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys. I remember a child's West London. One Saturday afternoon, after a football match During which I dirtied my boots By standing around as a sub in the mud, And my elbow by tripping over a loose shoelace, An older boy offered to take me home. We walked along streets, Through subways crammed with rowdies, White or West Indian, in black gym shoes. "Shuddup!" my friend would cheerfully yell, And they did. "We go' a ge' yer 'oame, ain' we mite, ay?" "Yes. Where exactly are you taking me?" I asked. "The bus stop at Chiswick 'Oigh Stree' Is the best plice, oi reck'n." "Yes, but not on Chiswick High Street," I said, starting to sniff. "You be oroight theah, me lil' mite." I was not convinced. The uncertainty of my ever getting home Caused me to start to bawl, And I was still hollering As we mounted the bus. I remember the sudden turning of heads. It must have been quite astonishing For a peaceful busload of passengers To have their everyday lives Suddenly intruded upon By a group of distressed looking Wolf Cubs, One of whom, the smallest, Was howling red-faced with anguish For some undetermined reason. After some moments, my friend, His brow furrowed with regret, As if he had done me some wrong, said: "I'm gonna drop you off Where your dad put you on." Within seconds, the clouds dispersed, And my damp cheeks beamed. Then, I spied a street I recognised From the bus window, and got up, Grinning with all my might: "This'll do," I said. "Wai', Carl," cried my friend, Are you shoa vis is 'oroigh'?" "Yup!" I said. I was still grinning As I spied my friend's anxious face In the glinting window of the bus As it moved down the street. I remember a child's West London. One Wednesday evening, When the Pops was being broadcast Instead of on Thursday, I was rather reluctant to go to Cubs, And was more than usually uncooperative With my father as he tried To help me find my cap, Which had disappeared. Frustrated, he put on his coat And quietly opened the door. I stepped outside into the icy atmosphere Wearing only a pair of underpants, And to my horror, he got into his black Citroen And drove off. I darted down Esmond Road, Crying and shouting. My tearful howling was heard by Margaret, 19 year old daughter of Mrs Helena Jacobs, Whom my mother used to help With the care and entertainment Of Thalidomide children. Helena Jacobs expended so much energy On feeling for others, That when my mother tried to get in touch In the mid '70s, she seemed exhausted, And quite understandably, For Mrs O'Keefe, her cleaning lady And friend for the main part Of her married life Had recently been killed in a road accident. I remember that kind And beautiful Irish lady, Her charm, happiness and sweetness, She was the salt of the earth. She threatened to ca-rrown me When I went away to school... If I wrote her not. Margaret picked me up And carried me back to my house. I put on my uniform As soon as she had gone home, Left a note for my Pa, And went myself to Cubs. When Pa arrived to pick me up, The whole ridiculous story Was told to Akela, Baloo and Kim, Much, much, much to my shame. I remember a child's West London. The year was 1963, the year of the Beatles, Of singing yeah, yeah, yeah in the car, Of twisting in the playground, Of "I'm a Beatlemaniac, are you?" That year, I was very prejudiced Against an American boy, Raymond, Who later became my friend. I used to attack him for no reason, Like a dog, just to assert my superiority. One day, he gave me a rabbit punch in the stomach And I made such a fuss that my little girlfriend, Nina, Wanted to escort me to the safety of our teacher, Hugging me, and kissing me intermittently On my forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks. She forced me to see her: "Carl didn't do a thing," said Nina, "And Raymond came up and gave him Four rabbit punches in the stomach." Raymond was not penalized, For Mademoiselle knew What a little demon I was, No matter how hurt And innocent I looked, Tearful, with my tail between my legs. I remember a child's West London.

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Snapshots From a Child's West London

I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack, How I loved those Wednesday evenings, The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps, The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair During the mass meetings, The solemnity of my enrolment, Being helped up a tree by an older boy, Baloo, or Kim, or someone, To win my Athletics badge, Winning my first star, my two year badge, And my swimming badge With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys. I remember a child's West London. One Saturday afternoon, after a football match During which I dirtied my boots By standing around as a sub in the mud, And my elbow by tripping over a loose shoelace, An older boy offered to take me home. We walked along streets, Through subways crammed with rowdies, White or West Indian, in black gym shoes. "Shuddup!" my friend would cheerfully yell, And they did. "We go' a ge' yer 'oame, ain' we mite, ay?" "Yes. Where exactly are you taking me?" I asked. "The bus stop at Chiswick 'Oigh Stree' Is the best plice, oi reck'n." "Yes, but not on Chiswick High Street," I said, starting to sniff. "You be oroight theah, me lil' mite." I was not convinced. The uncertainty of my ever getting home Caused me to start to bawl, And I was still hollering As we mounted the bus. I remember the sudden turning of heads. It must have been quite astonishing For a peaceful busload of passengers To have their everyday lives Suddenly intruded upon By a group of distressed looking Wolf Cubs, One of whom, the smallest, Was howling red-faced with anguish For some undetermined reason. After some moments, my friend, His brow furrowed with regret, As if he had done me some wrong, said: "I'm gonna drop you off Where your dad put you on." Within seconds, the clouds dispersed, And my damp cheeks beamed. Then, I spied a street I recognised From the bus window, and got up, Grinning with all my might: "This'll do," I said. "Wai', Carl," cried my friend, Are you shoa vis is 'oroigh'?" "Yup!" I said. I was still grinning As I spied my friend's anxious face In the glinting window of the bus As it moved down the street. I remember a child's West London. One Wednesday evening, When the Pops was being broadcast Instead of on Thursday, I was rather reluctant to go to Cubs, And was more than usually uncooperative With my father as he tried To help me find my cap, Which had disappeared. Frustrated, he put on his coat And quietly opened the door. I stepped outside into the icy atmosphere Wearing only a pair of underpants, And to my horror, he got into his black Citroen And drove off. I darted down Esmond Road, Crying and shouting. My tearful howling was heard by Margaret, 19 year old daughter of Mrs Helena Jacobs, Whom my mother used to help With the care and entertainment Of Thalidomide children. Helena Jacobs expended so much energy On feeling for others, That when my mother tried to get in touch In the mid '70s, she seemed exhausted, And quite understandably, For Mrs O'Keefe, her cleaning lady And friend for the main part Of her married life Had recently been killed in a road accident. I remember that kind And beautiful Irish lady, Her charm, happiness and sweetness, She was the salt of the earth. She threatened to ca-rrown me When I went away to school... If I wrote her not. Margaret picked me up And carried me back to my house. I put on my uniform As soon as she had gone home, Left a note for my Pa, And went myself to Cubs. When Pa arrived to pick me up, The whole ridiculous story Was told to Akela, Baloo and Kim, Much, much, much to my shame. I remember a child's West London. The year was 1963, the year of the Beatles, Of singing yeah, yeah, yeah in the car, Of twisting in the playground, Of "I'm a Beatlemaniac, are you?" That year, I was very prejudiced Against an American boy, Raymond, Who later became my friend. I used to attack him for no reason, Like a dog, just to assert my superiority. One day, he gave me a rabbit punch in the stomach And I made such a fuss that my little girlfriend, Nina, Wanted to escort me to the safety of our teacher, Hugging me, and kissing me intermittently On my forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks. She forced me to see her: "Carl didn't do a thing," said Nina, "And Raymond came up and gave him Four rabbit punches in the stomach." Raymond was not penalized, For Mademoiselle knew What a little demon I was, No matter how hurt And innocent I looked, Tearful, with my tail between my legs. I remember a child's West London.

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