Physics in action

I maintain that ‘keeping out the way’ is good in Life. I used this philosophy throughout school-life and beyond. In the main, it (mostly) has kept me out of trouble. For some people trouble is way of life.

In life there are always exceptional circumstances where ‘rules’ simply disappear and the (seemingly) impossible happens. So it was when *** erupted in flame…

~

His given name was *** but he was known simply as ***. It went with him, he lived up to it and had the name no matter what he did. What he did best of course was to bully; everyone. Probably his parents too, leastways he never appeared in school ‘nicely’ dressed, nor yet did he flaunt any good manners in daily life. He was what he was: A hard nut. He was very hard too, I had watched once when three boys had jumped him, the mess was unbielvable, but *** was unfazed by it, despite at one stage have been kicked with some force in the face. He had spat out the tooth and carried on, though the bite on the protagonists leg was different in shape to the previous one that had inspired the kick in the first place. It was good to be on the right side of ***.

Summer holidays, when a child, seem to last forever. It was one of those long hot summers we used to get where the sun hung in the air all day and languidity poured over the earth in torrents.

We had been across town to see what was happening. Rumour had had it that Percy had a new bike for his birthday and with that being a big issue we had felt the need to see for ourselves. As we passed the end of the subway *** appeared. Our hearts sank a little and we tried to carry on but he called to us and that was as good as an order. He wanted to go with us of course and he tagged along. The only way to make conversation with *** was by repetition. Say something; say it again: Repeat the above, until words invoke response – move on to next phrase…

On the way back, (turned out to be a bit of a damp squid. Percy had NOT been given a new bike. The old one had been repaired and hand-painted by his Dad.) I felt a hand grab me by the neck and another hand started patting around my body. This was ***’s way of letting you know he wanted something, in this case it turned out that a cigarette was his desired object. I was discarded and he reached for another victim. As I lay there cursing him (under my breath), I suddenly remembered that I knew where I could get hold of some cigarettes. I explained carefully to him that I needed to go and fetch some for him and would meet him by the rope-swing. Repeated three times and…

I dashed back to the house. And retrieved the stash I had hidden in the shed. The packet was grabbed along with a box of matches. I pushed the box back into place and fled toward the aforementioned rendezvous site.

Distractions are a good way of passing time. Ours was the Rope-Swing.

In another era men had dug out the cutting and laid industrial-railway lines. They went on to build the factory and the compressors they had made there had been shipped out along this very track. The banks were steep and chalky when it rained they became like ice and much more of a challenge to climb. In the dry they crumbled and the only way to climb effectively was to seek out the giant Flintstone that lay embedded as foot or handholds.

During the cutting of the track a big old Beech tree had been left near the top teetering on the slopes. As the work had progressed it had settled and though at a jaunty angle continued its growth into the shape of its changed surroundings, It stood in clearing it lowermost branches having suffered it stood tall and proud, outstripping the younger growth beneath and it stood now in a clearing. The lowest branches pointing upward at a seemingly impossible angle.

It did not take the intrepid local boys and girls very long to work out that if someone was to put a rope as far out as could possibly be managed then a high old time could be had swinging to and fro from the sloping ground. And the Rope-Swing was born. The kids from all over gatherd at weekends and long queues formed sometimes as they waited eagerly for a turn. Us locals had precedence of course, it was Our swing and we called the shots as to who and when… - it never worked that way in real life because fights broke out and it always ended for some in tears and pain. Nevertheless we did have some credence in the neighbourhood and this was reinforced when in the company of ***.

Fearless. He did not posess the brain to do fear, so he just got on with things in a fashion that beggered belief at times. He had strolled across the path of an oncoming Express train that missed him by the thickness of a hair on a gnats wotsit, just to show that it could be done if the timig was right. When asked if he could show us what happened if he got the timing wrong earned the infidel a thick ear.

*** was on the swing as I arrived, he called out as he swooshed overhed. He did a couple of passes as I made my way up the bank before landing and greeting me by stretching out a large hand, waiting eagerly for his cigarette.

He sat around the base of the tree while he smoked and watched us as we each tried to outdo the other in height. He laughed long and loud at our puny attempts. He stood and pushed the fags into into his pocket which was already bulging with …stuff. The box of matches he pushed into the back-pocket of his grubby, faded jeans.

“Bryant and May became a limited company in 1884 and Swan Vesta have been known in the UK for many years. There have been many company amalgamations and today, they are part of the Swedish Match Company. To many they will always be known as the ‘smokers match’.”

The trick to gaining height was to lessen the angle, hold the rope as high as possible then to run as close to the trunk as possible and slide down to the end of the rope. This did have consequences of course, the return journey was aimed squarely at the trunk. To avoid nasty accidents – and there have been many – extend the feet upward and wait for the ground to come up and meet you then run sideways. The trunk has face, body and foot prints embedded into the bark from those who failed to follow these simple rules.

The contest comtinued for a short while until after ***’s fiftieth attempt he declared himself the winner. The rest of the afternoon was spent with *** barking orders interspersed with him smoking the rest of the packet. It was nearing dusk when we began making ‘going home’ noises and he relented much to our surprise. I suspect hunger was beginning to claw his belly in the same way. Anyway we watched wearily as he trudged upward pulling the rope up with him. He started off well, the rope as he ran slipped through his hands and as he neared the point of no return then he grasped at the rope and launched himself of the ground. Momentum carried him across the clearing he swooped over us at an angle and he started to let the rope slip through his fingers. We could all see that the rope was too fast. We waited. We watched. We held our breath.

I have no idea what he was thinking. I doubt he did. The rope simply shot through his hands and that burning in itself must have been hell, but not content with that, when he reached the big knot in the end it simply burst open his hands and he was set free.

He flew. Us hardened locals had seen this happen before. There was only one place he was going to land. We ran across the glade toward the patch of stinging nettles. Meanwhile as *** continued his flight he was beginning to yell. We all knew that could only mean that our hunch was correct and the stingers awaited him. The graceful arc he described came to an abrupt end as he sank through the foliage screaming as the nettles closed around him, and he landed square on his butt.

There was a momentary silence, then a mighty whooshing sound. The matches in his pocket had been crushed by his weight and friction had done to the matches …

To any nine year old the sight of a thirteen year old leaping out of nettles with his *rse on fire creates an image that is hard to escape from.