Do you remember the good old days?

The days when we would have frost and snow in the winter and sunshine in the summer. Kids would have rickets and wear wire-framed glasses and dogs would chase each other and play piggy-back in the street.

There would be a Saturday afternoon matinee in the Strand cinema, costing 6d a seat, and if you didn’t have a bell on your bike Mr Duff the local policeman would soon be knocking on your door.

I don’t remember anyone having had such a thing as a virus, but I did remember whispers about some poor soul who had a terrible illness called infantile paralysis and who had to live in a contraption called an iron lung.

I was probably about 10 years old when I discovered cash.

I can remember the light being switched on when I realised that if I wanted something I had to earn the money and save up to buy it.

My parents had always set good examples. Dad worked as a delivery driver for Quiggins sawmill and builders merchants and in the school holidays I would be his assistant.

Health and safety had yet to be invented and I spent many an hour hanging about the timber yard getting to know the men who worked in the different departments.

Quiggins imported timber, and their sawmill and joinery departments were a steady source of supply for offcuts, the raw material for a budding firewood supplier who lived on a housing estate where everyone had a coal fire and a need for a regular supply of kindling.

My first enterprise was supplying small bundles of neatly-tied sticks delivered by a neatly-tied lad and his neatly-tied handcart.

Another source of income was running errands for elderly neighbours.

I was building up a reputation as a reliable message boy, but I soon discovered that sometimes things could go wrong.

I may have already told you this story, but I think that it is worth a re-tell.

I had been asked by a neighbour to collect a carton of cream from the dairy shop.

I think that the bus fare was one penny each way.

Now depending on the job, if it was a fine day, I would walk or jog to Douglas and back and save the fare.

The customer would always pay for the bus fare but I was young and fit and tuppence was tuppence.

But this particular day, I had used the bus.

Peter, our rabbit catcher, was a large, friendly brindle greyhound.

If I was on a mission to the local shops, he would come along as a bodyguard, but if I had travelled by bus, he would lie on the pavement outside our house to welcome me home.

The bus stopped outside the youth club.

Peter, who as usual was pleased to see me safely home, leaped up and put his feet on my chest and pushed me backwards.

I landed on the cream.

At a stroke, a good day became a disaster.

Now I must have been about nine or 10, and many things were still on wartime rationing.

Our neighbour’s daughter was being married that afternoon and the reception was to be held at the family home, just up our road.

The star of the day, apart from the daughter, was to be a large trifle, topped with very hard to come by fresh cream. Oops!

The story is true but I forget the outcome. I probably lost a good customer but as long as I learned my lesson, the day was not wasted.

The first time you drop a clanger it can be forgiven, the second time it serves you right.

I was going to talk about takeaway food, but there’s always next week.

One thing is certain, we’ll not be planning any holidays. Look out, look out there’s a virus about.

Some time ago Pullyman - aka Michael Cowin - was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, a condition that affects people in different ways. Michael discovered writing and Island Life is featuring some of his musings. Sometimes topical, sometimes nostalgic, read about life as seen through the eyes of Pullyman