The comment, however, was greeted withs some shock and soon my entire childhood was under scrutiny (what, exactly, had I done with my time when I wasn't flying kites? Creating stories about the fairies who lived at the bottom of my garden and making mud pies would probably have been the honest answer). It was decided that rather than being a case of serious child neglect (oh, how my parents would laugh) I am instead, simply and hopelessly, a child of a city. But, it was agreed, this needed to be fixed. I would fly a kite.
Which is kind of how I found myself, in a huddle around Bourbon’s pound shop kite, on Scarborough beach on the final bank holiday in May.
"Where are the instructions?" had been the somewhat naive question. It quickly became apparent that the pound shop is the pound shop for a very good reason and their ability to provide adequate and informative instructive material is not that reason.
Ten minutes later the kite was still in several pieces.
"How many WYP-ers does it take to fix a kite?" I pondered aloud as the current answer stood at six. Plus me, but I didn't really count as I was simply looking on and making comments about the pound shop at every available opportunity.
Eventually, after what almost amounted to a lot of blood, sweat and tears, the kite was fixed.
"What do I do?" I am, after all, resolutely rubbish at most things that require actual bodily co-ordination and, understandably, am not so keen to betray this to the group around me. They mock me enough about the McFly thing without adding anything else to the list.
"Have you ever ridden a horse?"
I am not sure that I understand entirely.
“Oh, well” Bourbon says “It's just a bit like riding a horse. If you want it to go left you pull on the right, if you want it to move right then pull on the left”.
"Ok". I try and sound more confident than I actually am, knowing as I do that such displays of agility are not exactly my strong point.
To aid the process Bourbon and Bar Boy demonstrate how a kite should be flown, largely through blaming the other person whenever it crashes to the ground. That bit at least appeals.
Eventually it is my turn.
"Ready?" Bourbon holds the kite.
I suppose I am as ready as I will ever be. "Yes".
There is a split second of nothing and then Bourbon launches the kite into the air. And, somehow, it stays there. I can barely cover my shock. I AM FLYING A KITE. On a beach. Aged 25 and a half.
NB: The sand in underwear thing? Well, how else do you think that happened?