Growing up in the fifties was a time of wonder. The war had left us kids with magical playgrounds of bomb sites. All manner of treasure could be found if you looked hard enough. There were open spaces everywhere, a butterfly on every flower, a newt in every pond and great big caterpillars on every hedge. For sixpence you could go to the pictures on Saturday morning, buy an ice-cream and still have change. The best toy any boy could have was his imagination.
A game of conkers
Come autumn a game of conkers in the play ground. First
you must prepare your conker, this involved slow baking or pickling in vinegar.
You Don't need Jane in this Jungle.
With imagination every lamp post was a jungle vine and every boy could be Tarzan.
Marbles, a game of true skill.
A bag of marbles was a necessity for all boys. Swapping and collecting seemed to be more fun than playing the game. Nobody seemed to know the rules, you sort of made them up as you went.
A budding Stirling Moss
In those heady days when the fastest thing on the road was the milk float, a boy and his soap box was king.