Like many individuals, I learned many useful lessons during my fledgling years. For instance, acquiring the knowledge that possessing a double-jointed ring finger is unlikely to lead you on a meaningful career path. Another being the need to be discerning when choosing projectiles to use for skimming on water.

The latter wisdom acquired on a mid-1970’s August afternoon in Saltwell Park, Gateshead. An impromptu stop off with my brother Ian as we headed home with a carrier bag of food from a Low Fell grocers.

Stopping our walk through the park beside it’s lake, our kid and me decided to break the boredom of our trek back to the Chowdene estate by skimming stones across it’s rippling sun-kissed water. Not a pursuit either of us were normally found entertaining, however bereft of a football we couldn’t partake in our normal park pastime of footy.

Despite being relative novices at the ‘sport’ of stone skimming, Ian and I knew for the projectile to be at it’s most performant it needed to be flat – A shape that allowed it to skip gracefully along the water’s surface; as opposed to a rounder missile which ordinarily sank as soon as it engaged with the wet stuff.

Scouring our immediate surroundings on the lakeside, finding a stone with the necessary aerodynamics proved a difficult task. So much so that at the time Ian spontaneously made up the adage ‘There’s never a flat stone around when you need one’.

Unfortunately for my younger sibling, like his other adage of the time ‘Buses are crap’, it never really took off. It’s final resting place the adage graveyard in the sky, a dark domain situated between a Threshers off-licence and TV presenter Richard Madeley’s sincerity.

Undeterred at the paucity of suitable flat stones Ian and me continued to look around our immediate locale for alternative projectiles, which were frustratingly also of a premium.

We did, though, manage to locate a duck feather, a flattened empty can of Skol lager, a discarded page from the Newcastle Evening Chronicle and a rabbits foot. None of which we deemed would make suitable skimming missiles…… Especially the rabbit’s foot which was still attached to a rabbit laid dead behind a lakeside shrub.


Never one to give up on any scheme (regardless of how hair-brained) my brother put his hand into the carrier bag of shopping we’d just collected for our mum and pulled out a box of eggs.

“What about using these, Gary?” he queried.

“I doubt eggs will skim, Cheesy! (his nickname)” I replied disparagingly.

“Well they’ll skim better that a duck feather and the front page of the Chronicle, Gaz” Ian argued.

“An anvil would skim more impressively than a duck feather and the front page of the Evening Chronicle, but it still wouldn’t be any good at skipping along the surface.” I retorted, beginning to regret raising the subject of filling in time by skimming stones.

“We haven’t got an anvil, Gary.” our kid observantly pointed out.

“I know, it was a deliberately stupid example I made to back my argument.” I countered.

“Even if we had an anvil, Gaz, we’d not be able to lift it to throw it into the lake to see if it skimmed.” my brother continued.

“Look, Cheesy. I know there isn’t an anvil, I was trying to make a point of how stupid it would be to attempt to skim eggs.” I attempted to clarify.

“You’re a right boring get, Gaz!” my brother felt moved to proffer; rightly pointing out my penchant for not taking risks.

“The egg shells will crack as soon as they come into contact with the water, Ian.” I proffered, further backing my strategy of not skimming oeufs.

“They might not…… They might be hard-boiled.” Ian argued, seemingly determined to throw an egg into Saltwell Park lake.

“There not hard-boiled, we’ve just bought them from the grocer’s shop…… They aren’t hard boiled before he sells them!” I pointed out despairingly.

“He might!” Cheesy further argued, much to my annoyance.

“Ok, well go ahead and do it…… Just don’t come running to me if you kill someone!” I inexplicably responded.

“Right, watch this then, Gaz!!” my stubborn sibling exclaimed, before hurling one of the half dozen eggs lakewards.

Sadly, we never got to find out if eggs will actually skim across the lake as my brother’s idiosyncratic projectile didn’t touch the water. Instead, it inadvertently hit a duck. The bird in question looking less than happy at its glossy green and black down feathers now bearing yolk, white and eggshell from Ian’s poorly guided projectile.

Concerned we’d get a rollocking from the park keeper, Ian and me ‘legged it’ onto Saltwell Road, heading south towards home.

Breathless from our escape and the long run, we arrived in our family kitchen sweating profusely. After handing mum her bag of food we walked into the living room, our tiredness leading to us both slumping inelegantly onto the settee.

Our relaxation didn’t last long, though, as soon we scarpered out of the front door after hearing a shout from the kitchen:-


As we both ‘legged it’ along Dorchester Gardens, I turned to my brother and asked “Where we running to, Cheesy?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve not ruled out running back to Saltwell Park….. After all, a rollocking from the park keeper will be nothing compared to the one we’d get off mum!”

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