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Psychedelic Crayons
(Published in Cadenza, February 2003)
'Crayons, Daddy!' Myfanwy said, 'crayons.'
Myfanwy stared at the bright orange arrows and vivid green squares on the footpath.
These colours were so bright under the Mediterranean-blue Hackney sky that the middle-class family man peeled off like an onion, to reveal the consciousness of my hippy Welsh days, organic food, my flat that overlooked the sea in Borth, distant Snowdonia, drugs and dreams.
We held hands in our little paradise - to the east through the railway arch, the grinding traffic of Morning Lane, to the west, the noisy convoy of buses on Mare Street, to the north the 'Murder Mile of London' where the drugs gangs shoot each other - but this is St John's churchyard, green foliage and tranquillity.
Myfanwy traced a yellow arrow with her left foot.
'Naughty,' she said, 'crayons in crayon book.'
'Very naughty. Come on, nursery.'
Of course the signs on the pavement were the marks for gas workers, water-pipe layers, Cable TV layers and the others who make holes in roads. I sighed at the cold logicality of it all.
Next day there were more yellow stars, and green squiggles and circles from an urban Welsh wizard. Thousands of old hippies will swagger up Morning Lane, the men with hoes, flowers, and beards, the bra-less women in long tie-dye skirts, all singing Joni Mitchell songs. They will restore our dreams and our organic vegetable plots. Perhaps this is the spot where they will.
'Fantastic colours!' I said.
But she was cross and smacked my hand because they have not crayoned in the crayon book but on the pavement. Soon men would begin their work making holes.
The next day I was in more sombre mood and there was no Welsh wizard on the loose. All the same, Myfanwy and I stopped at Churchwell Path and examined the ground.
Incredible! The brightest orange spots had made halos round the yellow arrows, and a new convoy of orange stars had made a rainbow shape across the path.
'Naughty!' she said.
The next day I was full of anticipation as we walked towards Churchwell Path. All the symbols were still there. Perhaps there were new ones?
'Get your kiddie out of the way, will you mate.'
I turned from my revelry to face a huge, blond skinhead, in white T-shirt and muscles like tennis balls.
'What?'
'Gas, mate. Main Drains tomorrow, Cable, Thursday.'
'All of you?'
'Redevelopment.'
I picked up Myfanwy and we watched as a troupe of hole diggers marched under the railway arch, led by a man on a mini-digger machine.
'So much for Welsh wizards.'
'Sorry mate?'
That afternoon when I trudged back from the nursery with Myfanwy, the magic colours on the footpath had been replaced by a long thin gully. Chevron barriers, with the contractor's 'O'Holleran' on each one, were stopping us tripping into the hole.
'Colours gone,' Myfanwy said.
The man on the mechanical digger shovelled up another gash-load of rubble.
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