We used to live in a house which had a steep hill down one side. The hill swooped down, down, down, before curving round the back of the house, and round a tree. It was a perfect hill for a billy-cart, or other sort of cart.
Not that we had a billy-cart. But what we did have was a tricycle. It was yellow and green and had two seats. And it was the perfect vehicle for flying down the hill on. Two girls would sit on the seats, the smallest girls of course, because they were the safest. And we two older girls hung one on each side.
Up to the top of that very steep hill we pushed that tricycle. At the very top we’d stop, and arrange ourselves. Then, ‘One. Two. Three!’ We pushed ourselves off the top of the hill and went flying down the side.
Faster and faster the tricycle went. Faster and faster, and all the time we shrieked and shouted with glee. And faster and faster the tree at the bottom of the hill came closer. Would we make it this time? Would we get round the curve without spilling over, or hitting the tree? Most often not. But sometimes, just sometimes, we’d go swooping round that corner and sail on down the garden.
Finally we’d coast to a stop, unclench white knuckled fingers, and push the tricycle back up to the top. Over and over again we flew down that hill. Until at last, one day, four girls was just too many, and the front half parted ways with the back half, ending our fun on the hill.