As a sixties kid I spent a lot of time popping...
in those innocent halcyon days before Brexit, Trump, dodgy coalitions and impending environmental doom. Popping was my thing.
And I remembered it as I stared out of the window this morning, watching the ridiculously cold 'summer' wind blast it's way through my garden hedge. I was trying to focus on the positive but it wasn't easy, as my tan faded alongside the memory of a sun drenched Ibizan beach.
But then I noticed it, the shrub that had kept me amused for hours in my childhood and for a brief moment I was whisked back to my nan and grandad's garden where endless hours were spent lying on the lawn or sitting on the front door step, popping fuschias.
Now I know this may seem wierd but I can't believe that there are no other fuschia poppers out there. It's just like bubble wrap not as poppy but still very satisfying. I was a midwife, gently popping open the tiny buds, helping the flower on its way. I hope it never did the plant any harm.
Life was easy then, lying on the grass, popping. I didn't have anything to worry about other than missing an episode of HR Puffnstuff, my Bunty comic not being delivered or having to force my way through another slice of nan's lardy cake. I never had to think about whether I wanted a soft or hard Brexit, I had my dream marriage to Jack Wild to focus on.
So if the sun comes out again, and the temperature creeps up above 12, I might sneak down the garden and have a little pop. Or maybe I won't, as it will probably be a huge disappointment. Some things are best left in the memory banks, bring them out again and you risk spoiling. Best I just leave popping in the same box as Jack Wild, Bunty and my dear old nan's lardy cake.