But it's just a fantasy

How do I connect a story from the fifties and settle it in the year 2015. I'm staring at blank pages as my mind flits back to the past. That fifties world when time really did seem to stand still. A time when folk didn't seem to compare what they had with that of their neighbours. Few cars in Swindon Close. Neither mum nor dad worrying about us climbing trees or playing in the nearby copse. It must have felt secure for mum and dad who were both blind.

   We played marbles,hopscotch,what's the time Mr Wolf, skipping and used brightly coloured chalks on the pavement. I recall little feet trying to not touch the lines of the pavement and jumping in all available puddles whilst wearing my brightly coloured plastic shoes. During the long summer holidays, which always seemed hotter, us kids would put on shows in neighbours gardens or sell tatty old toys outside our front gate. I can't recall whether we made any money or, if we did, where did it go?

I recall having sixpence pocket money every week. It was great fun going to the toy shop. in Petersfield Avenue, where I'd stare at the things I could buy once I'd saved enough money.

  Although I was warned not to get into strangers cars by both my parents I didn't have a sense of fear when I was out and about then.

   I don't think that we lost out in that television didn't enter our home until the early sixties. Perhaps listening to the wireless served us better in that we had to use our imagination when listening to the radio or when mum read us braille stories: that was until we were older and able to read our own stories. Life felt more comfortable and certain with trips out to the sea or visiting family in Coventry or Northamptonshire. Not for one moment did I ever think that such a certainty would change as drastically as it did and in such a short time.