I had hippie parents. Christmas gifts included things like “Lets Grow Bean Sprouts at Home and Be Healthy™” home gardening kits (this is true). Not an action man or BB Gun in sight. The closest I got to a projectile-based toy was looiing a clod at Travis, my best friend. I wore corduroy dungarees til I was 10. The folks ran off to India every now and then, returning with even more dubious hippie presents, and kaftans smelling of patchouli.
In order to right the injustices of my childhood deprivations, Nick and I bought a remote control helicopter a few days back. Just a dinky one, about the size of a dishing up spoon.
Bored with buzzing Frankie (Labrador) and Stankie (Pug puppy), I went for the altitude record, the yardstick being the huge oak tree shaped like Grandpa Simpson’s head (a peyote-weighted observation, made some time ago by The Fat Guy with the Beard).
The ‘copter shot up, quicker than a child’s fumbled balloon vanishing to a dot in the sky above the fairground- and vanished behind the tree.
It’s been 4 days. I have posted flyers all over the neighbourhood. None of the local kids has claimed the R100 reward. Black Hawk is still down.