Winged

Hazy recollection, but the general gist went something like this...

Whilst browsing through an old trunk I came upon a collection of old notebooks, journals and jotted scraps all dating from my time at junior school. Randomly leafing the pages unleashed a storm of clouded memories and I was struck by bolts of fond nostalgia. One particular section most enthralled me - a diary of doodles; roughly scrawled illustations of childhood adventures, annotated with titles or brief explanations.

Most seemed mundane to my adult eye - pictograms of everyday situations, with headings such as "The Football Match" or "Pillow fighting" floating over colourfully crayoned representations; a two-dimensional world, peopled by surreal stick-men. Captured in a mad melee of pencils, pens and thick felt-tips.

But one diagram left me dumbfounded. Entitled "Mr. Collingwood takes me flying" it showed a large, winged stickman and a small stick-child sweeping through the sky, boldly etched speed lines trailing in their wake as they burst through crayon clouds.

Suddenly a horde of sunken, slumbering images burst through the doors of things long lost and forgotten. I remembered Mr Collinwood, my RE teacher, with a vivid, uncanny clarity. His brown, fluff-balled suit. His grey-speckled hair. His stale, sweet smell and spider-leg nose hair. His gravely voice and jagged nibbled nails. And the two bumps on his back, subtly protruding from his shoulders, stretching and straining against the fabric of his shirt. I remembered his wings, unleashed, in full span and full glory. And with the utmost certainty, yes, I remembered the day he took me flying.