AUTUMN finds us crunching through streets wet with leaves and chasing the ghosts of our younger selves down misty lanes and parks.
Long ago, in Botanic in our early days, Friday nights meant pizza and a pint for £1 and Saturdays were a chip with peas, onions and curry sauce.
Then, in another time, we'd stroll through parks hand-in-hand with our small child, pausing to poke a stick into a murky puddle, kicking up piles of leaves, crimson, gold and yellow.
"Do you remember when we used to collect the leaves and do leaf prints?" I ask small child now grown-up.
"Sorry, no, but I'm sure it was lovely," he tells me.
"Couldn't you just lie and say you did?" I tell him.
All that invested effort… like Christmas when the kids end up playing with the boxes.
He clearly has no memory of his virtual pet, the Tamagotchi, that I fed and kept alive for him by pushing buttons non-stop while he was at school. C'est la vie.
It seems like only yesterday that my own primary school project meant a trip to Curles lane at home: down the old path, past the stone arch and the gushing river to gather leaves and conkers.
Oak, sycamore, ash, rowan… my sister helped me pick and name and stick each leaf down on card, then label it neatly. On the other side of my poster, we drew a huge tree and added loads of oak leaves.
Out on Curles lane, children threw sticks up into the horse chestnut trees to knock down treasure. You prised open the prickly skin to reveal the shiny brown conker inside, asleep on its bed of cream satin.
If you had a bit of wit, you went home and soaked your warrior conkers in vinegar before stringing them up for a conker fight.
Now I walk the park and wonder at all the conkers lying there. Treasure is more of a virtual joy these days.
Perhaps conkers have gone the way of the hoop and marleys and jacks and kick-the-can and clackers – the latter were banned in our school because of tales of broken wrists.
As a young journalist, I covered stories of the good old days when older people went into school playgrounds to share the joy of their childhood games with the new generation.
Now, it's our turn to remind pupils of the good old days out in the playground: hopscotch, the farmer wants a wife, one-two-three red lights.
Cue much rolling of eyes. I doubt they'd be keen.
Years ago, in the post-war days, my mother would talk of the toys that brought her joy when she was little. Those were tough years – an orange and a penny in your Christmas stocking was a big deal.
Once, as a huge treat, her mother took her across town and bought her a little bat with a ball attached on a string of elastic. I had one of those too.
My mother went with her mother to visit a neighbour and her elderly mother.
"Don't worry, I'll fix it for you," said the elderly mother, taking ma's bat and ball from her.
She fetched a pair of scissors and snipped the elastic connecting the ball to the bat, then handed it back with a smile.
Being a good child, ma said nothing. But she was devastated. So devastated that she remembered it for her remaining 85 years.
Nearly as devastated as our boy on the day the gardener hired by next door to cut the hedge went a snip too far. We were out shopping and arrived back to a distraught teenager – you know, looking like he'd found a penny but lost £1.
"He cut the internet cable, we have no internet," he cried.
It felt like his end-of-the-world scenario – imagine, no internet for a whole two days, but we shrugged and said what could you do?
"Not even that, he cut through the cable twice," said our fella. That was extra salt in the wound.
And on the topic of childhood games, you need a strong disposition to watch Squid Game – the south Korean series. Think Lord of the Flies, Gangnam style.
It's so bad – or so good – I'm watching it through my fingers. I'm cringing, I'm crying… there's little of childhood innocence about it and a trucker-size portion of sheer playground cruelty.
