Bucket

My mother engineered many photo shoots for her daughters. A favourite scene was for us to ‘look dreamy' whilst walking along the seashore, or to be busy and involved in playing. The ‘bucket photograph' as it has come to be known, was intended as a showcase for our new child sized foam sofas, as well as our chosen toys; the figure of ‘Dumb Bear' can be seen looking concerned at the painful bashing which my sister is inflicting upon me.
This is a favourite photo of mine because it was one of the few in which the action was entirely unplanned. Fiona is meant to be seated beside me on the foam couch, but instead she decided to smash me on the head with a bucket. I am able to remember the sharp, dizzying pain of the bucket's impact, along with the absolute surprise. The most shock I thought I would have to endure was the thick snap of the camera shutter (it always made me jump a little). Our pudgey feet sunk into the red shagpile carpet and mother took the photograph just before my enraged wail started up. The Mr Men tent seen in the background was the scene of a protracted period of sulking after Fiona had been banished to her room in punishment.
Sibling violence is the source of much amusement, embarrassment and guilt. In my case, it usually involved myself perpetrating some kind of wound, and then running off and hiding. Examples of this are many - kicking out one of Fiona's baby teeth on Good Friday and then running to hide in the shed behind a pile of mouldering Sunday newspapers dating back to the nineteen sixties. A lot was made of the fact it had been Good Friday , as if I was betraying the spirit of the holiday with my vicious actions. Compared to such an attack, the bucket incident was quite mild.
Looking at photographs of myself as a child I have an urge to update. I picture the change in myself since that time and then move on to the objects. Where are they now?
The bucket endured for years, gradually losing its sheen and fading to pink before it cracked. The couches disintegrated, the covers shrinking in the wash so when they were stretched over the foam it buckled uncomfortably beneath. The Mr Men tent lost a few of its constituent poles, after enjoying a brief resurgence in my teenage bedroom in the mid nineties. Dumb Bear is still around, his fur worn and close, still making a weird sheep like groaning sound when tipped forwards. The other toys were long sacrificed to the Salvation Army. The girls are doing their best as sensitive individuals in a harsh world. Their dress sense has improved.