The sound of reeds...

Sound is a funny thing. Some sounds have a place in time. Some sounds can make you travel back in time - just the wind in the reeds calling me back to a single, simple, summer’s day in childhood.

A scouting party, Jimmy up front, Phil in the middle, me behind. A scouting party of three apache Indians carefully making our way through the reed bed. ‘Don’t step on that twig Jim, it’ll give away our position.’

A flurry of two Mallards, away to our right, shoot out and up through the reeds startling us. I loose my place on the mat of intertwined reeds beneath my feet and step into the oily, black water. My plimsolled foot sinks beneath the surface and doesn’t stop. I’m sinking. The mud has got me and I’m sinking into it. It stinks. It’s sticky, pulling at my foot. I’m in it to the knee, then losing my balance, I fall sideways toppling into the water – splash!

I flap and struggle, try to stand, but no use. Past my knees, past my thighs, up to my still slim waist - I’m going under.

I scream in fear. I’ve seen this at the Saturday flicks – Hoppalong / Sherlock / Lassie’s young master, get stuck in the quicksand and sink. The goodies are always saved – the cavalry / Watson / Lassie, but sometimes the baddie goes under and is lost forever.

Not me though, I’m no baddie. I feel a hand grab my shoulder and pull hard, then more hands pulling harder. Jimmy and Philip, my own small cavalry, pulling me out of the mire inch by squelchy inch. One last yank and, with a loud slurp, I’m out and back in the reeds.

Plimsoll’s, jeans, new windcheater, all covered in thick black ooze - sticky, dripping, and rank.

I traipse home. My mum is going to kill me.

She didn’t, well not quite, and my clothes came clean eventually. Not my plimsolls though, they were past recovering.

Just the wind in the reeds calling me back to a summer’s day in childhood and making me remember. I smile.