When I was a kid

When I was a kid,

rationing had just finished.

Our telephone was the public one

outside the Post Office.

There were bullies round every corner

but we ducked and dived and hid.

We had one bath a week, oilcloth on the floor,

and brodded rugs,

a coal fire with a black leaded oven in the living room

and only used the back door;

I had fried onions and bread for dinner,

sometimes baked beans in milk – luxury! -

and my mum boiled the dirty clothes in a copper

and hung them out to dry proper

or they steamed on the clothes horse.

We once had a day trip on a bus to Bridlington.

I got a writing book for Christmas

and new pencils and a selection box,

Enid Blyton and Antony Buckeridge,

and I wore second hand clothes of course

until I got my first new shirt when I was twelve

and possibly some socks.

On our little black and white tv

they told us the world was on the verge of nuclear war

and Kennedy and Khrushchev were nose to nose,

and even a little boy supposes

that is very close, very close indeed.

Nostril blowing against nostril.

They were missile to missile in Cuba.

We could all die any minute. Even me.

There were films about what to do

if a nuclear bomb landed, so everybody knew.

You had to get under the table to be safe.

We watched all this, then had another jam sandwich.

Nowadays kids spend hours

lounging round their lounges,

zooming in their bedrooms,

trying the latest fashions,

following their social influencers’ passions,

facetiming their mates, maybe tweeting

(and just occasionally physically meeting),

what’s up?-ing on WhatsApp,

instanting stuff on Instagram,

surfing t’interweb, watching Netflix,

Tik-Toking… desperate for something,

anything that amuses:

they’ve only Box Sets to help, and five thousand available movies.

It’s tough for them to cope. These are grim days.

Sometimes there’s no car to give them a lift everywhere.

Sometimes, they can’t even afford take-aways.

It’s no wonder there are calls

for a mental health councillor in every school

so the children won’t be scarred for ever.

You’ve got to feel sorry for kids in the 2020s,

say the psychologists, the cognoscenti.

What have they to live for,

no hope, no dreams, only head sets

and instant music tracks a-plenty…

Poor souls: in such a wasteland,

maybe without a social hub on hand,

without a sports centre in reach,

only two weeks a year on a foreign beach…

how do they manage to go on?