Copper George, Strawberry Jam and a Cat in a Basket

In more Lincolnshire nostalgia, from the land that time forgot, my sister and I used to have to do the horses. That’s another thing, again. So, we had a bike. Well, we had two. A pink tiny shopper and an iron 1940s purple hellbeast called Viking. I used to take my sister to do the horses, and we had a blue tabby cat called Elsa, who used to ride in the front basket of the shopper, with my sister sitting on the back wheel. Cat in a basket. No one is sorry about that.

When we were proper babies, we had to do cycling proficiency, with the local policeman, Copper George. This is back when the fuzz weren’t committed rapists and murderers. He drove a ratty municipal Ford Escort and was a bit of a legend. He knew everything that was going to be an issue. A bobby on the beat.

I did my cycling proficiency, then promptly got caught giving my sister a croggy. A croggy is different from an upsy. He said, You know what this means, don’t you. It means that if a car comes the other way, you will both be strawberry jam. Strawberry jam on the road.

Life went by, and we inherited Kev The Police. Another legend. Another story for another day.

A hundred years later, as a adult, I still was doing the horses on the Viking and Copper George would sail by in his car, retired and living his best life, windows down, and we would shout, STRAWBERRY JAM.