The Loneliness Of A Swingball Playset.

Summer is kind of upon us. Wring out the rain from your underpants and part the black clouds and you can almost feel the ethereal glow of the sun. It’s there somewhere anyway and it brings with it a whole host of activities and events. There’s wrestling in beer gardens, all clothed in St. Georges flags, smoke pouring from billions of disposable BBQs, pale and stumpy legs tottering everywhere like Butcher’s Choice sausages on drugs and to top it all every kid is armed with a Super Soaker. Yes, when it comes to a little bit of good weather, there really is nothing more paramount on a little person’s brain then some hardcore, H2O violence. Apart from the obvious consequences being soaking-wet neighbours and drowned cats, these militant splash fests leave one of yesteryears summer activities rotting in it’s wake. No I’m not talking about Scatch or the Aerobie. I am of course referring to Swingball. On today’s morning stroll, Ziggy and I happened across this lonely and unloved article, set up in a neighbour’s drive. It’s all ready for a game! Sat in the middle of the drive panting like the family dog, just waiting to have it’s rackets stroked and swung. However, just like the family dog, good ol’ unfashionable Mr Swingball won’t be played with this summer. He’ll just sit in the drive and hinder Dad from parking his car there for 2 months before returning to the back of the garage, with his ball on a string bobbing in a crusty tin of creosote.


This week sees the anniversary of the Normandy Landings on 6th June 1944. On our walk through Northenden Village, Ziggy and I paid our respects by the cenotaph.


Wandering back home we happened across some sort of graffiti type tag. It reads ‘W/shawe One Time’. I have no idea what this means, but I like the scary skull.