Dob, dob, dob

When I was a wee lad of three or four, I had pocket-sized Ladybird hardcovers about Scouts and English police. I think I confused the two, because I pretended to be one of the former by wearing an ice-cream container on my head (a bobby's helmet?) and carrying an old red shoulderbag of Mum's as a rucksack. As I grew older, I lost the comical accoutrements but retained my desire to enlist in Baden-Powell's brigade. In the town where I lived 'til the age of nine, there was a Sea Scout troop. I recall my father, who ran away to sea as a teenager, being keen for me to go. I refused. In my mind, all that messing about on the river meant they weren't The Real Thing. Our next community had traditional Scouts. However, by the time I was made aware of their existence – by my adventurous older friend AS – I was already committed to playing squash three days per week. My parents, who could only drive us to so many after-school activities, said if I gave that up I was welcome to try Scouting. Obviously, the attraction of a sport where the kid with the fastest serve usually won, sausage rolls were peeled prior to consumption, everything smelt like Staminade and it was our pleasure to mop the floors during A-grade comps, was too strong. I wonder if I woulda been a more resourceful, well-rounded person today had I not been so prejudiced against seafaring and so committed to slogging a black rubber ball. Maybe I should just join the English police.