I wanted to be a red fence. I was sure I was the opposite. Something akin to porridge. Lumpy, grey and transient. A red fence had to live forever. A structure, by its mere colour and function that could never be swallowed up or ignored till it turned cold.I saw my first red fence in Hagmore Green – Suffolk 1965. It was blasphemously skirting a church. An English God was happy to be painted lurid colours in the loving 60’s. Someone at least was taking notice of him again. He slung psychedelic rainbows around willy nilly, whooping it up to a piquant guitar resonance.
I was nine inches shorter than that red fence, measured as accurately as a small boy’s thumb will allow. One day I stood against the fence splayed out like Jesus on his Cross. I dressed up in red. It was difficult as I had to steal some of my sister’s clothes. I chose the jumper over the blouse as the jumper didn’t have lace on it. I squashed tomatoes all over my face and hands and I became a red fence.
I scored my first goal at football the next Saturday.
Courage of a child
(Thanks to the inspiration from Matt Mawson’s picture – ‘red fence’)