When I was young, around the age of 6 or 7 perhaps, I lived in a small village called Culter. At this age I was still in Primary School, and after each school day I would walk to Joyce’s house. Joyce was my child minder. 

Sometimes I’d walk with friends, sometimes I’d walk alone. The typical route took me right through the centre of Culter, down its main street. Many cars travelled through Culter, to reach villages further into the countryside; therefore it was a relatively busy road. 

I had a certain play that I enjoyed on rainy walks home; the more rain the better. As it rained upon the road, water would seep to the edges and flow alongside the pavement. 

To me, these flows of rainwater were thundering rivers, strew with rapids and other obstacles. I would search to find a discarded bottle cap, and this would become my boat. 

Balanced on the edge of the pavement, oblivious to the nearby traffic, I would sail my boat down this treacherous river, all the way through Culter. 

I would get lost in this play, immersed in my imagination. Joyce would ask me why I was late and how I had managed to get so soaked!