This week I was determined to stay on theme, but in the event, this was as close as I could get.
The grass is not an ideal playing surface for polo and, judging by the laundry, resembling the aftermath of a bodiless lynching, I don't think our neighbours counted a glamour puss in their number.
So it's just little me, astride my first two-wheeler, safe within the confines of an allotted plot, fenced with hazel hurdles presumably made by my grandfather. Out of view, is the caravan I shared with my parents. I have vague recollections of it, but in the absence of a photograph, you can assume it looked similar to the one in the background - behind the laundry.
This was stop-gap accommodation for us. The post-war programme for the building of council homes must have started in the large towns and cities and spread outwards, eventually reaching the fringes of rural England sometime in the early to mid 50s. We didn't know it when this picture was taken, but such a home had our name on it, and that was still at the planning stage.
As I've suggested, this 'toddling' period of my life is not easy to recall. There is one memorable occasion however, when I was introduced to a refrigerator by a lady who lived in a house/bungalow of bricks and mortar, next to or nearby the caravan site. On a warm and muggy day, she offered me something sweet tasting, chilled or frozen, from what I regarded to be an ordinary cupboard, weakly lit from the inside. The precise item is lost to time, but that chilly surprise remains to this day.
Looking closely at my chubby face, you can probably detect a degree of apprehension in my expression. Not too surprising, cameras can have that effect on little ones. For me, it's more poignant. A snap of registered uncertainty. A small boy wondering, but not beyond the event. His life compiled of brief and, largely forgettable, episodes, yet learning how to keep his balance on the fringes of events that would turn his world upside down, when the stabilisers would come off for good.