As stated, I was a late developer and by my 15^th birthday I was getting paranoid about it. Like many late developing boys I’d come to the conclusion that there was something very wrong with me. Then, at 15½ just as I was about to begin 5^th Form it started to happen. I was thrilled, yes?

I was not, I was aghast.

Oh, I had the coveted hair but it was even more vivid then the stuff on my head; by the end of the holidays the damn’ thing looked like a bloody Swan Vesta! Having said that, stripped I looked a bit like one anyway so now there was a 5’ 5” Swan Vesta with a smaller version attached.

The first gym lesson of term I learned to curse the name McVitie even though they made the best dunking biscuit in the world. I wasn’t at all happy with my newly acquired soubriquet “Ginger Nuts”. Possibly a character flaw but I didn’t think it was at all funny. Several of the boys made the Swan Vesta reference as well.

Certain things didn’t get talked about in our house and puberty, at least as far as it was happening to me, was one of them so I was flying blind. When I had my first wet dream I was baffled, upset and worried.

Objectively I knew how boys’ bodies worked, I’d had graphic lessons in that from the age of 10. I hadn’t really thought about it happening to me though. I carefully folded my pyjamas so the accusing stain was hidden and then had a thorough wash.

That night I found a clean pair of pyjamas on my pillow, even though laundry day was still several days off and worse, a box of Kleenex had appeared on the shelf above my bed. Nothing was said either to or by me but the meaning was pretty clear.

Then there was teenage priapism and those nightmare moments when watching paint dry causes an erection. On one never to be forgotten school day I had to excuse myself from every period to take care of things. Trying to hide the problem by keeping my blazer buttoned, putting my hands in my pockets and stooping just made it more obvious.

I also made the mistake of admitting, during a casual conversation with my lifelong friend Rich, that I’d had an “accident” in my pants while in class one day. Rich couldn’t help himself, he blabbed to some other village boys.

One Saturday morning I was doing one of my lawn mowing jobs at Jubilee Cottage, which overlooks the green. Rich was mucking about with a couple of other boys and shouted “Hey, Malc are you coming?” Without thinking I shouted back “No, I’ll be about half an hour yet” and they all fell about. Realising what had just been said I decided the back garden needed attention.

Of course I forgave Rich, there was never any doubt that I would.

The worst moment of all happened at home. One evening I’d had a bath and was sitting in the living room, wearing pyjamas; I was reading Macbeth, one of our set works. Dad was watching television and Mum was reading the paper, all in all a rare, pleasant family scene.

Dad gave a very artificial cough and I looked up to see what was wrong. Mum had the paper right up in front of her face and Dad was staring meaningfully at me; then his eyes moved down. Following the direction of his gaze I looked down and to my utter horror there it was, cheerfully sticking through the front of my pyjamas!

Mortified, I stammered something about needing the toilet and fled the room with my face and neck burning. I did go to the toilet, it was the only room in the house with a lock on the door.

Having sorted the problem out but still blushing, I went back to the living room and started to apologise. Both my parents were trying very hard not to laugh and assured me it was quite normal; it would have been nice to have had some warning.

Mum did suggest that perhaps I should wear my dressing gown in future.

Love

This is a funny story although, for me, it wasn’t at the time. It became one of my Mother’s stock tales calculated to embarrass me in front of friends and relatives when I was a teenager. The year was 1962 and I was at the grand old age of 9.

It was a blazingly hot day in August and I was playing alone, my best friend was away on a family holiday so I didn’t have anyone to keep me company.

I was wearing swimming trunks, plimsolls, a sun hat and nothing else, although every bit of exposed skin had been slathered in sun cream; we already knew how easily I burned.

Sitting in the garden idly messing about with my collection of Dinky and Corgi cars I decided that I wanted a bit more excitement and my wandering eye came to the old plum tree.

I’d always been somewhat timid and had never found the courage to climb trees like my friends did but this was my last summer in the hated house and my last chance to prove that I could at least be brave enough for this easy climb.

Well, if I didn’t do it now the mood was on me, the chances were I never would so I walked up to the tree and began to plan my ascent. I carefully put a foot on a convenient knot, pushed up and grabbed the lowest branch.

Having very skinny arms I had trouble lifting my own negligible weight but with absolute determination I heaved myself up to the branch and sat there for a couple of minutes to prepare for the next part.

Now full of pride and determination I reached for the next branch and hauled myself up, finally achieving my goal to lie on my stomach legs hanging down one way and arms the other; not the most dignified position but I’d made it!

Getting from there to a sitting position took every little bit of courage I could find but after a lot of wriggling I managed it. Standing up was the easiest bit and at last there I was, king of all I surveyed and only a bit scared, well quite scared to be honest.

Full of pride and self-congratulation I let go of the trunk, spread my arms wide in triumph and…

Fell off.

The normal result of falling out of a tree was a broken wrist caused by the instinct to break one’s fall but this wasn’t to be my fate. For one thing I was too shocked to think about putting my hand out, for another I fell on soft ground, right in the  middle of a stinging nettle patch.

For a few seconds I lay there, relieved that I hadn’t hurt myself, then it dawned on me where I was and I let out an ear-splitting shriek of outrage after which I jumped up and ran aimlessly round the garden screaming my head off.

Being so skinny the legs of my trunks didn’t fit very well so I’d been stung absolutely everywhere and it hurt, a lot.

It must have been a hilarious sight as my Mother, alerted by my screams, chased me round the garden while I, out of my head with pain, wouldn’t stop running away.

Eventually she cornered me and carried me, still thrashing around and screaming, to the outside laundry room, stripped off my trunks and started pouring cold water over me.

For the next few days I had to suffer the indignity of being smothered in calamine lotion, all over and I had several sleepless nights caused by the intolerable itching from the hundreds of stings.

I suppose I can forgive my Mother for telling this tale to her friends and, during my adolescence, to mine. Everyone in the village thought it was hilarious and on the plus side I didn’t break anything although at the time I wished I had.

Oh, I never climbed another tree.

Love