Mum and me in Victoria Square, Christchurch.

K.G.Gale : Christchurch NZ : 1950s

"I knew I shouldn't have bought this car. Why do you want to drive? I can drive us anywhere we want to go," Dad snorted.

We could see that he was having profound regrets over buying the ancient Triumph. Black, square, but a thing of beauty to us kids. None of our classmates had a car, yay. All the other kids were so jealous.

Dad had acquired a bit of money due to an electrical accident he'd had at work. He'd lost an eye when some dumbo turned the electricity back on while Dad was fixing some overhead wires at the freezing works where he was employed as an electrician.

Blown off the ladder, he was seriously ill. The company realised it was liable and in those days you could sue rather than claim the piss-ant ACC you get today, so they threw him some shut-up money and told him to swan back to work when he felt better.

Triumph Gloria ... this one is currently for sale and can be viewed here.

He'd always wanted a car so he wouldn't have to pay for taxis to the pub, a daily ritual which was as religious as he was ever bound to get. He didn't know the first thing about cars but the man who sold it to him said he'd never have an ounce of trouble with a reliable old Triumph — "they just never die".

He'd driven it home in a flush of pride.

Mum had a sly smile on her face, which Dad picked up on immediately. "No, you're not driving it. You know how nervous you are. You'd never even find your way home," he said with a smug, self-satisfied air.

"It's all right for you, Bill, you've been driving before. All I want is a couple of lessons and I'll be able to take us to Brighton and over to Sumner for a real day out."

A day out? The only days out my brother and I ever knew were spent sitting outside the Belfast pub, waiting for them to deliver the usual raspberry drink with the air of gracious magnates. We would rather have sat at home, but Mum said she'd preferred it if she knew where we were. The fact that we'd been left at home more often than not after school didn't seem to register.

Drinkers line the bar to get in last orders before closing in the 6 o'clock swill days.

So, while we had the car, my eleven-year-old brother and I, a knowledgeable eight-year-old, were sentenced to utter boredom perched in a car outside a pub where nothing happened, with the exception of drunks occasionally falling out the door. How we prayed for six o'clock ... then they'd come out full to the gills, often with freeloaders, to buzz off home and have a party.

The Acrobat

Those parties were something. When I see the civilised gatherings now, I have to suppress a smile. Our parties were mainly assorted drunks of all shapes, intelligence and sizes. Of course, they all smoked. Sometimes we couldn't see the people clearly on the other side of the lounge because the smoke was that thick. Warren and I could cut patterns into it with our fingers. Blowing elegant smoke rings was an initiation into adulthood, but we both swore we would never smoke or drink when we grew up. (Don't ask.)

And then there was the acrobat. She attended our parties frequently, a middle-aged slender woman with a vacant expression, mousy-haired, early forties and very simply furnished in the attic. After a few drinks she'd leap into action, do a snapping handstand against the wall with legs akimbo. In those days, women didn't wear slacks/pants but always a frock or skirt, so her legs and knickers were on full view to the bemused partygoers who gaily encouraged her antics.

Then the coup de grâce would be delivered. A man would walk over to her with his cigarette and drop his ash on to her hole-ridden knickers. A very unique ashtray. Fortunately, my brother and I were both short and couldn't see the spectacle, and could never understand why everyone roared with laughter.