It was a forbidden pleasure as my father had threatened me with the strap if I should dare go to the tip. "You'll cut yourself and get an infection," he warned. All the signs in the world would not keep our gang of four from frolicking in all that mass of discarded debris.

We rode around on our bikes and got chased by other gangs with faster bikes, or at least that's what we thought - they were just that much bigger those kids.

Every weekend and school holiday was an adventure. We were Robin Rood and his Merry Men, or cowboys and itchy-bums on other days. Sometimes we even pretended to be in the Second World War and threw "grenades" at any enemy that just happened to wander along - and we had a great collection of assorted junk that in our minds became grenades or anything we wanted them to become.

One of the favourite finds was old paint tin lids. These eventually became the Frisbees that kids toss around today. Lids are much better fun as they really can destroy anything in their murderous flight path and I suppose in reflection that it was dangerous, but we were indestructible as we were actually Supermen dressed in boys clothing and our trusty, rusty bikes became our steeds of fun.

After a half day frolicking in the double pleasures of tip and creek, I would try and sneak into our home and get to the tap before my father smelt my telltale smell. Mum knew and would hide my cast off clothes before dad got home late from work. Ah the lies that a good scrubbing can hide.

My ultimate revenge was when our first daughter married. My father and step mother travelled the 3,000 kilometres from Perth, West Australia, to attend the wedding and reception. In my part of the speeches at the reception I reminded my father of the trouble over the creek. "Now your grand daughter has become a Creek as that is her husbands family name." - sweet revenge.

Copyright David Gawthorn 2002