Pedal to the metal

This may simply reveal my (quite overwhelming at this stage) desire to regress to a happier world such as the one found when seated at the controls(?) of a pedal car going along at what seemed a breathtaking speed. (I’m ignoring, in this little spell of nostalgia, the memory of the rancorous arguments over whose turn it was to have a go in it). It is many years since I have been in a pedal car but I do remember the simple joy it induced. And I am not talking about those nasty things called go-karts, beloved of your typical tow-headed tyke. Let’s be quite clear on that.

The little red car belongs to my friend in Melbourne. I didn’t take it out for a burl around West Footscray. A regrettable omission. And the sign resting by the aluminium (yes, that IS the word–it has FIVE syllables) dinghy at the Chocolate Fish Cafe in Miramar (or Wellington somewhere) intrigued me greatly.

In the family archives (extensive, digitised, and now in my possession) there are a couple of pictures of children with pedal cars. Gleaming luxury items in wartime Australia.