Boots.

Proctor, a prefect known for his unusual sense of humour, walked into the classroom. “Mr Black’s busy, so he’s sent me ‘round to tell you that this week-end’s essay homework title is, ‘Boots‘”. The obscene comments that followed Proctor out of the room indicated the general dis-satisfaction with the news. My opinion was somewhat at variance with that of my classmates.
It was Mr Black’s habit to call into the classroom each Friday afternoon and announce the title of the dreaded homework, he was rather lacking in imagination, leastways, I always had great difficulty in handling his topics; this was the first week back after the summer break and we all expected it would be along the lines of “What I did on my Holiday”. What I did on my holiday while, very satisfactory from my point of view, would, at best be of little interest to any one else.
What I did on my holiday was what I did on every holiday. It would start off with me dis-assembling my bike and polishing every component down to the last ball-bearing, replacing the worn parts and then, very carefully, re-assembling, adjusting, greasing and oiling the machine. The whole task gave me great pleasure and satisfaction, but better was to come. There were the long rides I would enjoy, sometimes with a friend, at other times alone. We would chose a destination such as Cheddar - and, on arriving, would find a suitable bench where we could eat our sandwiches and discuss the next day’s outing, then we would ride back home. We were not interested in seeing the caves, or visiting the tourist shops that existed even in those far off days, the ride was the thing. We knew that our routine achievements could never be related to our schoolmates at the end of the holiday as we would simply not be believed; there were, after all, more than twenty miles between Bristol and Cheddar - and there were the hills. We would become objects of ridicule.
But “Boots?” “Boots” was a subject I thought I could work with. “Boots” was a foundation upon which I could let my imagination play. “Boots” did not provide any restriction. “Boots” could be anything I wanted.
There were walking boots, riding boots, Wellington boots, ankle boots, fashion boots, car boots, desert boots, rubber boots, leather boots, a diver’s iron boots, hobnail boots, football boots, Russian boots with snow on them, Russian boots without snow on them, liquorice boots, boots up the backside, climbing boots, Boots the chemist, army boots, bovver boots, even the boots that Puss wore (though they were really what a fisherman would call waders).
Where does one start? Boots could take Wellington to Moscow, or Hillary to the top of Mount Everest, a soldier (or even a teddy boy) into battle, a diver to the bottom of the ocean, or Stanley Matthews to the winning goal in the cup final. Any one of them could lead the imagination around the world, and back again. But my musings were brought to a halt, Mr Black walked in, “Boys,” he said, “this week’s essay subject will be, ‘What I did on my Holiday.’”

I've just posted "Fintry Bike" from last Saturday, 21st June.