Is childhood memory a faithful reflection, or just fragments shaped by family tales and trauma? In this candid, gritty, and occasionally comical account, I revisit the earliest recollections of my 1970s/80s upbringing on a run-down council estate in Felixstowe—burns units, brown sofas, and all.
What Do We Really Remember?
What exactly do we recollect when we reminisce about our childhoods? Is it lived experience or memories retold so many times that they’ve rewritten themselves into fact? In this piece, I’ve tried to recall my earliest memories—how authentic they are, I can’t fully say. But they feel true, and that’s good enough for me.
I grew up on a knackered council estate in Felixstowe, flanked by older sisters who mostly ignored me, and younger siblings who were too small to be any use. The 70s and early 80s were tough, confusing, chaotic—and unforgettable.
Burnt Coffee and a Red Fire Engine
I was barely two when I had my first brush with the NHS. My parents were away on honeymoon in London, and I was left in the care of my nana. Not long after, I managed to pour scalding hot coffee down my back. Cue a stint in the burns unit and a vivid memory of lying in a hospital bed as my parents arrived with a big red toy. Was it a London bus? Maybe. But I reckon it was a fire engine—fitting, given that my dad was a firefighter.
There were no lasting physical scars, but the mental ones remain. To this day, I’ve never drunk a hot beverage.
Down Garrison Lane (Or Not) and Blood on the Brown Sofa
Nana features again in memory number two. I was being difficult (nothing new) and refused to walk down Garrison Lane. Nana scooped me up but dropped me on the pavement when my chunky toddler frame proved too much. Scraped knees, tears, and another hospital visit. A lollipop from a kindly nurse helped. But again, it was Nana, not Mum or Dad, in the spotlight. Memory three brings my dad into the story—kind of. We were play fighting when he hurled me into our cheap brown 70s sofa. Not very safe, it turned out. It had brutal wooden armrests. One caught my face, splitting my nose open. Another trip to A&E. Honestly, the A&E staff should have had a room reserved in my name.
The Crying Boy Curse with Sisters, Snitches, and Stones
Not all memories involve bodily harm. We had a “Crying Boy” picture at the top of our stairs—the kind that tabloids claimed caused house fires. Ours survived, but not unscathed. One night, during one of my mother’s more expressive moments, she tore down wallpaper, smeared ketchup everywhere, and set fire to records and uniforms in the back garden. My dad’s fire station shirts were covered in Heinz. The Crying Boy met a smoky end.
As the middle child, I was rarely anyone’s favourite playmate. When the sisters did include me, trouble was never far behind. Take the time Paula was pelting Tracey and me with random objects. Tracey snapped, threw a stone back—and smashed a window. Cue Paula’s wailing. Mum came running, wielding her weapon of choice: The Spoon. Not just any spoon. A solid metal pea spoon, with holes like it was made for slicing toddlers’ skin. Paula, of course, claimed innocence. Tracey and I got the spanking. That spoon left more of a mark than any punishment deserved. I hated it. One day, at 14, I bent it back and forth until it snapped. Then I binned it. A small, personal victory.
The Diamond Scam and then, tea
Another pea spoon classic came courtesy of a curtain defacing incident. Someone had drawn a diamond on our dining room curtains. Rory and Tamara were too young, so the suspects were me (7), Tracey (11) ,and Paula (9). Mum decided to turn it into a game. We each had to draw a diamond. The “winner” got a surprise. I copied Paula’s drawing—and won. The surprise? Two smacks with the pea spoon. I tried to block the first hit with my hands. Bad move. It hurts the fingers more than the bum. The second landed clean.
Final Thoughts
Memory is a strange thing—sharp in places, blurry in others. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember the fear, the confusion, and the weird joy in surviving it all. My childhood might not have been idyllic, but it was mine—and in some twisted way, I treasure it.
