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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.
Wow! These colours were so bright under the Mediterranean-blue Hackney sky that this middle-class family man's persona peeled off like an onion, to reveal the consciousness of my hippy Welsh days, organic food, my flat that overlooked the sea in Borth, the purple hills of Snowdonia in the distance, hallucinogenic drugs, 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; Upper Clapton 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 these signs on the pavement were the marks for gas workers, water-pipe layers, Cable TV layers, or any of the others who make so many holes in the roads. I sighed at the cold logicality of it all.
But the next day there were more yellow stars, and green squiggles and circles and, well, just maybe, there was an urban Welsh wizard giving us signs about the coming revolution. Thousands of old hippies will swagger up Morning Lane, the men with hoes, flowers, and beards, the braless women in long tie-dye skirts, and singing Joni Mitchell songs. They will restore our dreams and our organic vegetable plots. Perhaps this is the spot they propose to meet.
'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. This brought me to my senses and I realized that soon men would begin their work making holes.
The next day I was in more sombre mood and I did not want to pretend anymore there was a Welsh wizard on the loose. Nonetheless, Myfanwy and me 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!' Myfanwy 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 popping up his arms.
'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 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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