I was born in January 1947 during one of the coldest winters on record with snow on the ground from November through to Easter. I have a twin sister. Dad was a French polisher and mum the daughter of a florist, both from Hackney.

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My first real memory was sitting on the top of an upright piano, crying as my twin sister looked on quizzically. I guess I was afraid or perhaps just hungry.

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Living near the florists was great and I remember grandad mossing a wreath and teaching us grand kids how to do it with razor sharp wire wound round a short stick and earwigs crawling from the sacks of moss. Nan would “stab” them with single flowers, a real art and grandad would deliver the wreaths on a handcart or by horse and cart. Seems crazy now doesn’t it?

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Few people had cars and they were often shared whilst public transport in London consisted largely of trolley buses and steam trains. For those too young to remember trolley buses were propelled by electricity from overhead cables connected to the bus by spring loaded poles which would often come adrift. The conductor would have to get off and re-connect them with a long pole made for the purpose if further progress was to be made.

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My most vivid memory here is the smell of hot oil and smoke from the trains as they powered through the station. Not exactly eco-friendly but I defy any young lad of my era not to long for another whiff today. There was and remains something terribly romantic about it.

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We moved out of London when we kids were five into a brand new house on the Harold Hill estate. The pavements hadn’t been completed with crushed dark grey coke waiting for tarmac so any walking had to be on the road. The shops were still being built so in the early days shopping would be by the Home & Colonial van which would come round once a week. We had to walk over a mile to our first school and I hated it.

Each Christmas we had just one major present and a few cheapies including the proverbial orange. Mums and dads obviously colluded because suddenly all the kids in the road had roller skates and the next year a scooter. I remember my excitement when one year I got my first Meccano set, a toy which was to ignite and cement my love for cars to this day.

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We played cricket in the road during the summer school holidays, only having to get out of the way when the one car from round our way came tearing along just after 7.00pm. It wasn’t really dangerous because we could hear him coming when he was streets away. Other than that holidays were spent in the Manor Woods, coming home only for dinner. Nobody locked their doors in those days. Family holidays were spent in Margate. As a fair skinned lad I would always get sun burned and in those days there was no sun cream or after sun just calamine lotion, so it was a question of walking around like a stiff tomato covered in white paint until the skin healed. Ah those were the days eh?

Sundays were great. We always dressed in our Sunday best, although I don’t know why. Occasionally we were visited by relatives from London and would all go up the pub and us kids would play in the garden. For some reason playing with cousins was always more exciting…or was it that we just got to stay up late?

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There’s always a nasty memory that haunts you throughout life isn’t there? I’m not sure I’ve told anybody this before but mine was when we were shopping in Romford each of us holding mum’s hand as we approached Woolworths, opposite the brewery. I don’t know how it happened but a motorbike and sidecar suddenly turned over. The lady in the sidecar was screaming “Charlie, Charlie are you alright?”. Mum whisked us away and until this day I really don’t know if Charlie was alright, although I suspect he wasn’t.

Dad was now a long distance lorry driver and a good driver at that. I truly believe he could have directed you from Land’s End to John O’ Groats and named all the roads…and me?…well all I can say is that Satnav was invented for me. I’ve even been lost in a cinema.

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I have a most vivid memory here. We had an old piano which was well by its sell by date and dad said we were going to take it to pieces, use the wood for the fire and melt down the lead in the piano keys…by the way…no central heating, no washing machine…just a “copper” to boil water and a scrubbing board to wash the clothes with. Drying was by way of a hand operated mangle. No tumble dryer then. No fridge just a pantry. No TV…and when there was there was no colour. Everything was in Black and white and I remember neighbours would come in and watch our 9 inch screen with us.

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But I digress. I asked dad how we were going to dismantle the piano. He grinned and then poker faced said “A little gentle persuasion with a heavy hammer”. Crazy I know but I laughed out loud and I can see the pair of us standing there now. Happy days.

I went on from our second primary school, which I loved by the way, to Abbs Cross Technical High School in Hornchurch but that was a tumultuous year. My grandad died. Mum and dad had been taken in a police car to the hospital in London. The police were helpful and respected in those days. I knew then that when they returned grandad would no longer be with us. We kids went into a neighbour’s to play with their kids. I just wondered why I was the only one not smiling. They wouldn’t let me see grandad in the mortuary to say goodbye and I vowed never to let that happen to me again. It hasn’t.

Dad had to go into hospital for an operation. He had the first ever metal hip implant, something called hiduminium I think and was three months in traction with his leg up in the air just like in the” Carry On “ films and not allowed to work for best part of a year. How different today. The ambulance brought him home to a big welcome sign on the front door and he spent the time learning accountancy. 

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I grew up that year and we would chat and play chess together, although dad would cheat and giggle, well more of a cough really when he thought I hadn’t noticed.

So that takes us up to age 11, my formative years. I think I’d better stop now but you know this just might be the first chapter of a book in the making.

I might must call it “I’m a Baby Boomer and you are not”

Roger Hornett May 2022