When I was about 12 years old I went into business for the first time with my close friend, Vaughan Lipscombe, who then lived at Gorse Farm in Hawthorne, about five miles from Corsham, breeding and selling guinea pigs as pets to shops and pet-seeking individuals. Together we built cages and runs which were kept in one of the large outbuildings where Vaughan's father kept chickens in a large deep-litter run. We had dozens of guinea pigs and a few rabbits, and somehow Vaughan's dad tolerated this enterprising stab at the world of big business.
Sometimes I would cycle over to Hawthorne, but more often than not I would walk over. Living in the country in those days a five-mile walk was not considered anything out of the ordinary for a lad, rather it was simply all part of our daily exercise. The friendship grew when we both attended Malmesbury Grammar School together, albeit that Vaughan was in the year below me, and remained through most of our school years, although I lost contact with him after finishing school to enter the wider world of work.
Sometimes I would cycle over to Hawthorne, but more often than not I would walk over. Living in the country in those days a five-mile walk was not considered anything out of the ordinary for a lad, rather it was simply all part of our daily exercise. The friendship grew when we both attended Malmesbury Grammar School together, albeit that Vaughan was in the year below me, and remained through most of our school years, although I lost contact with him after finishing school to enter the wider world of work.
The memories that I have from those days are all pretty good ones, but there is one in particular that is not so hot --- or rather it's too hot! I arrived at the farm one afternoon to find the fire brigade had been called because the hay barn, which was attached to the poultry sheds, was on fire. Apparently Vaughan had made a den in the hay and, deciding that it needed illuminating, lit a candle for the purpose. Not a good idea! I remember trying to drag as much hay out of the barn as possible with a pitchfork, but all to no avail as the fire brigade doused everything in sight once they arrived. The building was OK but the hay crop was destroyed altogether. I think that our blossoming little business empire soon faded after that, and soon afterwards my walks to Hawthorne slowed down, metaphorically speaking, to an occasional dawdle. The memories remain, however, and pop up at the least expected moments such as now.
Aah! The folly of youth!
Aah! The folly of youth!
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