Climbing Trousers

‘Billy, come down from there!’ his mother chided him in agonised entreaty. ‘Those are your best trousers!’

‘No they’re not,’ shouted the little boy. He scrambled even higher up the wall. ‘These are my climbing trousers.’

Hearing the querulous squeals of little Billy on the rec’ this morning and watching this anxious woman wringing her hands in maternal dismay reminded me of similar happy altercations with my own mother all those years ago. And when the scruffy youngster made reference to his ‘climbing trousers’, I was immediately transported back to my childhood.

I, too, was provided with a pair of climbing trousers: robust apparel intended specifically for rough and lively play. I loved them. I cannot say the same about my Sunday trousers, however. I hated those – smart and grey and always at risk of becoming accidentally damaged thus resulting in me receiving a clip around the ear from my cruel father.

The ones I hated the most, though, were the trousers that belonged to my school uniform. Urgh. It makes me shudder now in disgust just to think of them: Navy blue, too short, too loose and always at risk of falling down around my ankles at grossly inappropriate moments. They never actually did, but the very fact that they had the dangerous potential to do so made my time at St Edmund’s Junior School much less than the cheerful experience it might otherwise have been.

Tagged as: Billy, Childhood, Kids, Memories, School, Trousers