When I was eight, we often played strip poker and roulette at the billiard table after dinner.
My brother, then aged 11, my father, 68, and I began the game heavily clothed in layers of tops, hats, scarves and socks. So nothing untoward happened. But the poker games were always serious and fiercely competitive, interspersed with screeches and guffaws of silliness.
This would attract the attention of our mother, who would peer round the door, raise her eyes heavenwards and tut while clutching a tea towel, a book of poetry or a cat. This of course set us off once again.
Playing roulette was also a big favourite. My father spluttered ‘Rien ne va plus’ and ‘Faites vos jeux’ as we possessively protected our chips and shouted at the wheel. The clatter of the ball focused my attention and I would cross my fingers tightly to influence the outcome.
Best of all was when the top of the billiard table was carefully and almost reverently removed, in preparation for the majestic game of games.
Time for the chalking of cues and the crack of the balls to electrify the atmosphere. My height did not spoil my aim, and I recall the thrill of potting the shots; sometimes with the extension cue, which added to the pretence that we were playing in a championship competition.
My father often brought home eagerly anticipated large blocks of salt for my brother and me to carve with the bluntest of knives. What a thrill to sculpt creatures that would bite us when they found a secret scratch or sore. Where on earth the blocks came from is anyone’s guess, but it occupied us for hours.
Pastimes in our house in the 1950s were always exciting and never boring. My father was exemplary in his inexhaustible search for ways to keep our minds active and questioning. He was a physicist, a pianist, a poet and an all-round amazing chap. And what of my mother? Well, that’s a story for another day!
