Once upon a time, about 15 years ago, lived a tribe of small children in a rambling home on a hill where the summers scorched and the winters wore but come sunshine or sleet, grey days or golden, the children would play.
They sang with Hannah Montana, they dove with Jacques Cousteau, and were all presumed missing on the day of the Mysterious Vanishing Rubbish Adventure – so it was never unusual to see their heads bent together hatching their plans but one unusual reason at times was the unconventional and highly loved story telling approach their father had taken. A fifth bent head with the four participating bandits was never present for this purpose as each was given their portion of this perpetual story by individual means and thus they were motivated to extract from each other each newest instalment.
The story took place over many years by intermittent bursts which always, always left the children bursting to hear not only the next piece, but all the other pieces and thereby fill the depth and breadth of the tale. Each character was possessed by a single child of same gender which sometimes also displayed some similar characteristics – and sometimes, far from.
There was Lilleth Barbie-neck, Dirk and Ralph – and Marcel (the tall, blonde, exceptionally handsome but slightly thick policeman).
The children grew up in the usual warp speed of time and somewhere in the spin the instalments stopped though they never concluded, and that, I think, was part of it’s charm.