Carnoustie - Back With A Bang
I was on my way from Aberdeen to Glasgow this afternoon when I suddenly remembered about the time I put explosives in my father's cigarettes. That's why I got off the train at Carnoustie. There was a shop on the High Street that sold the detonators and I wanted to find out if it was still there.
This is the kind of mad impulse that tends to seduce me when the sun is shining and the only prospect ahead of me is a lonely hotel room on the banks of the Clyde. Besides, I reasoned, I could always catch the next train to Queen Street. There was bound to be one every hour or so.
That was my first mistake. Arriving on the deserted platform I checked the timetable and realised I would have to kill more than two hours in Carnoustie. No matter. It's a place I remembered fondly from childhood summer holidays and I knew I would have fun checking out old haunts. It's the middle of July, after all, and the place was likely to be a hive of activity.
That was my second mistake. Strolling up Station Road onto High Street I found empty street after empty street. There were a few people coming and going from the supermarket but that was it. I wandered on and looked for places associated with particular memories. Where was the little hardware store that sold cartons of airgun pellets for my rifle? Where was the cinema that screened movie versions of TV sitcoms...Please Sir, On The Buses. And where was the shop that sold the cigarette explosives.
Ah yes, there it was. MacDougall's Newsagent. It still had the seaside buckets and spades in the doorway, but it seemed so much smaller. And there was no sign of the rack of tricks, novelties and practical jokes. This was how I had spent my money during those summer weeks. Money I had earned by picking raspberries in local fields. Money exchanged for whoopee cushions and black-face soap. And, of course, the tiny detonators that I inserted carefully into the end of my father's Embassy RegalsÂ
The first few didn't seem to work and I remember feeling much way way Barnes Wallis must have felt when his prototype bouncing bombs just sank into the water. But then, a day later, my Dad popped a ciggie between his lips, struck a Swan Vesta and then jumped out of his seat when he heard the bang and saw the frayed fag-end of his fag.
He looked so angry and outraged that I never did admit what I'd done. To this day he still blames problems at the manufacturers or sabotage by Virginian tobacco pickers. I'm lucky he never decided to sue.
There were no detonators on sale today. It would have been a waste of my money anyway.
He gave up smoking years ago.
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