The Helmet Holiday

I’m visiting my Dad in Iceland for a few weeks (actually I may be here for longer, catastrophic-volcanic-eruption-depending) and we got to talking about some incidents from my childhood. There are probably a thousand stories about stupid things I did back then that make me cringe today, but the Helmet Holiday really comes out top of the list.

I was a dainty 6 year old when I met up with my Dad in Scotland for a caravan holiday on the west coast. We met at my grandmother’s house in a suburb of Glasgow, and after caving in to the pleas of his only child we went out to the toy store before we made the journey through the Scottish wilderness to get to our caravan. I had recently been given a bike for my birthday by my mother, which was waiting for me back at home in England. I must have been rather excited about the bike, because I begged my Dad to buy me a helmet (such a safety conscious child!) from the toy store we were in. Of course, with it being a toy store, there really wasn’t that much choice in the way of helmets, but I saw the one I wanted instantly.

It was yellow. Bright, brilliant, sunshine yellow. It even came with Postman Pat stickers that I could artfully customise it with. Needless to say, nothing could stop me from being over the moon about having such a glorious helmet. Whilst my Dad dutifully carried the box it came in whilst we walked back to my grandmother’s house, I jammed the helmet on to my head and proudly walked through the streets of suburban Glasgow whilst plotting where to place the Postman Pat stickers.

Sadly, my brain wasn’t all that artistically evolved at the tender age of 6, but I thought I did a pretty good job of hastily attaching every single sticker onto the helmet in the midst of my excitement. Once the stickers were jammed onto the helmet, it went straight back on my head. And it stayed there.

Almost all of the photographs that exist from that particular holiday show me wearing my bright yellow head-gear. Building a sand castle: with the helmet. Walking on the rocks: with the helmet. Eating breakfast: with the helmet. Sleeping in the bunk bed: Without the helmet (My Dad had to put his foot down somewhere. I don’t know how he managed to pry the damn thing off me!).

The trouble is I never actually rode a bike on this holiday. I didn’t have a bike to ride – mine was a good 300 miles away in the East Anglian countryside. My Dad says this simple fact didn’t seem to bother me; I just loved wearing the helmet regardless.

Nowadays I don’t ride bikes that often. And I hate the colour yellow.