Lincoln was once an old Roman fortress outpost named Lindonium during the Pax Romana. It is mostly flat, named the Fen District, on the East coast of England and bulging into the North Sea, but not quite so extravagantly as East Anglia above the Thames Estuary. There is a very large, steep hill where the Roman’s had their temple and fortress. Turning down Steep Hill and going through the Stone Bow to the High Street, one eventually comes to a crest of several hundred acres of tree spotted topography named The Commons, common for all Lincolnians. If one owned any cattle or sheep, the livestock could graze on The Commons.

It was also a little hilly, so of course the children liked to play there in the wintertime because, when covered with snow, it had great toboggan runs. Some boys had their own wooden sleds. I never had a sled, but if one waited long enough, someone would say, “Climb on my back, I’ll give you a ride down”, and one piled on top of whomever was maneuvering the ropes and steerage and then….whoosh! It was very exciting. Sometimes it was top heavy and all would fall into the snow with squeals and giggles, not giving a hoot about the snow that made its way down one’s ‘Wellies’, or losing a mitten or hat that had been caught on wiry tree branches.

Springtime saw a one ring circus tent set up prior to the opening there would be a wonderful parade along the High Street, led by a properly liveried band and horses, and all escorted by crazy painted clowns. It was a thrill for every viewer. Watching the large bell tent being erected was a wonder to behold and seeing it at night was magic, the winking lights swaying in the breeze, encouraging everyone to come and be amazed.

There was also a golf course on The Commons called The South Park Golf Course, of which Daddy was a cup winning member, where cattle would wander undisturbed, but the “greens” around the golf cup were beautifully maintained, the only place roped off. Everything else was free for everybody; it was The Commons, shared by two legged plus-four golfers and four legged Jersey and Guernsey cows, giving everyone a challenge. You never knew where your ball was going to land, in cow patties or any other kind of shallow puddles. It’s still there to this day, you take your chances. Cows don’t care where they deposit their treat for you.

In the skies over The Commons, one could witness “dog-fights”, during the Second World War, between British planes returning to their Aerodrome in Waddington Airport and German planes pursuing them.

Getting back to the Tuck Shop, another thing that I would sometimes buy was a “Mickey Mouse Magazine”. On the back of the paper there would be a list of children who wanted to be pen pals and to correspond with other children. I chose a little girl named Sarah Almatage of Southampton, on the southern coast of England. We were about the same age and she too belonged to a dance class. We exchanged photographs and things like that and corresponded for some years.

There was another thing that I purchased with my copper penny, it was the sweetest, cutest, precious little thing you ever saw and could be placed into the palm of a child’s hand. Snow white silky fur, from which extended a long “pig pink” tail, longer than its body, and there were four tiny paws with translucent nails and two quirky ears placed equally on top of its head. There was a long pointy snout, tapering to a wiggly pink nose that seemed to be conducting a band by twitching a pair of well-partnered whiskers. When the mouth opened, it glistened with brilliant white symmetrical teeth standing sentinel around a very mobile, shimmering pink tongue. But the most attractive members of this very active creature were the two black bead eyes, framed by very tiny eyelashes that never seemed to close. And I loved it, my own Snowball….my very own pet mouse, purchased for a whole copper penny from a lad who raised them as a business to make his own pocket money from which he bought Woodbine fags, another name for cigarettes.

Daddy soldered a fine lattice window on top of a large silver tin that I filled with cellulose for Snowball to burrow tiny tunnels leading to a nest, away from prying eyes.

I felt a close rapport with Snowball, being an only child and it too being alone. I eventually had a brilliant idea, get it a chum. So with my next precious penny clasped tightly in an extremely moist palm, I visited the “Mouse Supplier” and purchased a second mouse. Its coat was a white field with black patches, one jauntily perched over its right eye, resembling a French Beret, so I called it Pierre.

Aware that animals can reproduce, and thinking I too could have my own “Penny a mouse business”, not to purchase fags, but I did love sweeties, I placed Pierre in the lovely silver home of Snowball. They got along famously, right from the start, squeaking merrily away. I’m sure Snowball was showing Pierre proudly around her domicile. Weeks went by with no sound of extra little squeaks, but all seemed happy in the mouse house. I couldn’t figure out why there were no offspring. I mentioned it to my supplier and he said, “You probably have two same sex mice”. Exclamation point! EXCLAMATION POINT!! Ooh la la that rakish beret had fooled me and I just assumed it was a male. This incident became my first lesion into “The Facts of Life”!