Being an only child meant Phillip Moleford was incredibly well versed in self amusement. He knew how to be on his own, which in hindsight could explain his expansive knowledge of the porn industry (for a ten year old).
He lived by the railway crossing which cut through the large forest that backed onto my house. One day, myself and my brother Horatio were in Phillip's room, playing with the trains on the floor as life-sized trains zoomed past his bedroom and rattled the jet planes that hung from his ceiling.
I'd spent years up there, playing with Phillip and his toys. He always got a lot of second-hand toys, bless him. When me and Horatio would find one we hadn't seen before, we'd ask if it were new, to which he'd reply, "New to me." I imagine upon presenting his son with a new toy, Phillip's father would slowly hand it over with the careful instruction, "NEW TO YOU," which Phillip would quietly mouth back, eyes all wide and grateful.
On occasion I'd break Phillip's toys. Not on purpose, but out of impatience of clumsiness. Maybe it was because I rarely got second hand toys and was spoilt and heavy handed, but those little trains seemed to crumble like pretzels in my hands. If Phillip was there, I'd hide the toy until he went downstairs for more orange squash, then as swiftly as a cheating bastard, I'd place the toy next to the closed door and wait for Phillip to burst in and "break" his own toy.
"Oh what a shame, that second-hand passenger train just lost it's wheels", I'd go, or, "Oh no! Be careful! Oh rat balls, you've just smashed the window of that nice second-hand VW Beetle." Poor little Phillip could never work out why he always broke his own toys when I came round. This might actually explain the hiding place for his porn, now I think of it.
One day, unannounced, Phillip says, "Wanna see my porn?" Horatio and I instantly put down whatever we about to break and nod enthusiastically. "Come on then." he says and off he skis out of his bedroom door. We follow him downstairs which we thought was a bit a strange place to hide your porn, but still. On go the shoes and coats, and past his mum we went. Through his garden we continued, absolutely intrigued not only to see boobs, but also as to where exactly this stash of porn was.
Out the garden gate he skipped with us in tow, looking at each other excitedly. Over the road and down the path into the forest we continue, by now being totally aware that Phillip had masterminded a place for his porn that neither his mum or dad would ever find. And then we stop at a tree. Phillip brushes away a bunch of leaves until he finds a little string with a stick tied to the end. He pulls at the string and starts winding it in like a fish. More nervous looks skit from me to Horatio. And there it was: one tatty copy of Penthouse from January 1982, all wrapped up in not one, not two, but three plastic bags.
He was an industrious fellow, that Phillip.
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