The miles and miles of vines had expired and we were skirting one of those non-descriptive industrial French towns ... so unremarkable I can’t remember its name. We were on the way to a medieval fort up in the mountains.
“I am glad we are going out for the day” said S, “I couldn’t do another day on the beach, it is far too hot. Besides ... I am starting to look like a Sambo.” “You could never be a Sambo ... you don’t have any hair” I retorted. “As opposed to you” he replied, pointedly looking at my dark curly barnet. “I guess you are going for the golliwog look?” he chuckled. “Actually I used to love golliwogs” I responded huffily.
I turned away and looked out of the winddow ... my mind drifted as I thought back to my childhood and how I used to eagerly chop out the coupons on the Robinson’s marmalade jar ... and ... despite this I never obtained the much wanted golliwog badge for my school blazer ... as I kept losing the little slips of paper and struggled to save the six that I needed.
“Why does everyone called Ronald have ginger hair?” asked a little voice behind me, breaking my train of thought. “Such as ...” I asked rather bemused.
