A Nostalgic Tale
By Paul Baldry

Went to the car wash today,
sat inside like royalty,
watching a lad outside
fighting my motor
with soaps, sprays,
and chemicals that
sound like they need
a licence to operate.

He caught my eye,
I caught his,
we swapped a smile —
and suddenly I was
ten years old again,
back when hardly
anybody had a car
but we still managed
to build an empire.

A Bob a wash,
ten pence for the wee yins,
and don’t start me
on the currency conversion —
I’ve done that lecture
too many times.
Half a Crown for the truck,
aye, 2/6,
25p in new money
for those still struggling.

No fancy gear then.
Just buckets, rags,
washing up liquid
nicked from under
the kitchen sink,
and a sweeping brush
that doubled as
a wheel scrubber
and a jousting lance
depending on the mood.

If they wanted polish,
they got Pledge —
furniture polish,
straight from your mammy’s cupboard.
The truck was a saga…
mops, ladders,
and the occasional
near death slip
that we laughed off
because we were immortal.

We soaked each other
more than the cars,
and a few passers by
caught a blast too —
all accidental,
all hilarious,
all part of the graft.

Honest work,
good fun,
and enough money
for swimming,
the cinema,
and sweets the size
of actual sweets,
not these modern
micro morsels.

No screens,
no apps,
just community spirit,
soap suds,
and the joy of
a job well done.

And today,
watching that lad
with his high tech arsenal,
I realised car washing
has become a skill,
a science even —
but back then
it was magic.