Privet hedges are like Marmite, you either like them or hate them.
For me they have always held a certain fascination. On the
darkest of winter nights when ferocious winds plucked up the salty spume and
chucked it at my bedroom window, I would listen to the tumult safe in the
knowledge that the sea could not climb the cliff. Those privet hedges
withstood the onslaught and somehow managed to survive. One long
blackened specimen leant away from the sea, fleeing the briny winds,
pointing south in a desperate attempt to stay alive.
It was on the south side where we would play, sheltered from the
icy blast that bore down on us straight from the North Pole. In the
relative shelter of the privet hedge we would play on the lawn and make daisy
chains. Well to be truthful we did sometimes make daisy chains but more
often than not, when left to our own devices, we preferred to torment
living creatures and our unlovely acts of cruelty had no limits. Young as we
were, we seemed to have an inexhaustible desire to harm. No one
taught us how to be kind to living creatures. I don't think anyone ever knew
what we got up to. Go out and play was the order. And play we did.
Obviously we preferred our victims alive. With avid
delight we jumped on a big fat juicy earthworm, stranded far from its hole in
the grass and beat it methodically. Our little twigs, like flails, rose and
fell rhythmically while the worm writhed in a serpentine
rolling agony. Beaten to a brown pulp, it moved no more and we lost
interest.
In summer, yellow and black spotted caterpillars took up
residence in the privet hedge and were an easy target once we knew where to
look. It did not take us long to find out they were a bright green
inside. Rows of green blobs on the paving stones were the silent
evidence of our carnage.
As for snails, we had to find out what they looked like without
their shells. They frothed and bubbled like fresh snot. What are
little girls made of? Sugar and spice and all things nice, I think not.
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