I have been thinking about grass (not that type – the stuff you mow when it gets too long). Not only about its colour, its smell, its feel, and how it evokes memories of carefree days when life was about playing in the back garden or out over the fields behind the house, but also about how it survives. It is one of natures survivors.

Those halcyon memories of worry free days are even more poignant now that a key figure in my life and those memories, is no longer here and hasn’t been for a few years now.

I remember summer days when dad would mow the lawn on Saturday afternoons following a morning shift at the garage filling cars with petrol as they headed to the beach with happy families, excited kids and stressed parents. I don’t actually know about the families, they are part of my imagination, they make up some of the customers I thought dad might be serving on his weekend mornings at the garage. I know that he also hoped to seal the sale of a car or two during these working hours. But he would return home and after lunch and his regular nap and a peruse of the Daily Telegraph would head out into the garden to mow the lawns. These were the years when me and my brother would have been in primary school. When summers would last forever and the school holidays even longer. They were hot and happy and would smell of drying hay over the bank that separated our house from the large square field on the other side.

Following his nap dad would venture into the garden where my brother and I would be playing some sort of ball game; football, or a game that we would have devised using a tennis ball or, if there happened to be a test match being played at the time, cricket. This was likely to be the case as the summer months were often too hot and sticky for football. These were pre-subscription television days when the BBC had exclusive rights to show England’s test matches. We would watch some of the match on TV and during the lunch and tea breaks we would charge back into the garden to continue with our own match.

Although he didn’t show it, I know dad would sometimes get frustrated at our insistence on keeping the wickets in the same place. The continued scuffing of feet by the batter, and similar wear-and-tear at the bowlers end would scuff away the already yellowy-brown grass. Of course, there was also a worn line where the batter ran up and down the wicket. But even though dad would have preferred an evenly spread green lawn he allowed us to continue with our games. I think sometimes, when the neighbourhood boys came round to join the fun, we were close to pushing dad too far. Thanks to my dad for letting us have fun.