Growing up. All in good time.

Sleepy, spread out village in Norfolk carved in two by the A1066 and passed in seconds; I grew up in Garboldisham. As much as I ever have.

All memories popping back every now and again.

From damming the Little Ouse under Hopton Bridge, poking dead sheep in the stream on the common with penknife sharpened sticks, feet black trudge home from the fens down Prickwillow, to bigger, better bonfires come November.

Spent most of it exhileratingly scared.

Climbing trees in private woods, can they see us scrumping of inedible apples, picking daffodils to sell from around the Black Prince's Temple. Knock and run. Rolling enormous snowballs taller than ouselves into a blizzard blind road and running like hell from the police Mini van. Hurried, deafened scouring in the darkness for the ting, ting, tinging of the lid after lighting a Tate n' Lyle carbide tin. Loads of "get off my property" shouts at bicycle gangs. Riding a Raleigh Runabout into the snow drifts - dead halt somersault over the handlebars, dig it out and try again - that cut off the village twice. Stopped by the police for open reverse cone megaphones. Wasn't me. Switching allegiance from the Swan to the Fox.

And. As for sitting on the village hall wall, I confess. I was responsible for the obscenities written in the grass one dark night using a garden sprayer and weedkiller left over from home made explosives.

Just trying to encourage the same behaviour in my kids now I'm in Shelfanger...