My life in playground

With two pre-schoolers in a tiny two-bedroom flat, we have become intimately familiar with all the playgrounds in our suburb, and several suburbs beyond. We know which one has the best sandpit, and which one has the dodgiest slide. We know which ones to avoid when the local fiends get their methadone dose from the nearby pharmacy and space out in the park, and which ones have the best protection from the wind and sun.

And I'm just so impressed by the design of these things these days, and the stimulation they offer the young minds. Kids can spend hours on these weird and colourful constructions, because that's what kids do, and I wish we had that kind of fun when I was a kid.

My generation was the last to get scarred up by the old playgrounds built of concrete and steel, before the people who built these things took concepts like 'safety' and 'less horrific injuries' into consideration.

My primary school had these incredibly dangerous things for young kids to clamber over, including a 3m high rocket ship that all the older kids would dare you to jump off. At least that one had some gravelly pebbles to jump into, most of them just had bare concrete.

Children would get seriously burned on slides that were baking in the sun, there was little soft ground to come off on, and some of the larger contraptions were big and fast and incredibly dangerous. One giant log on a swing thing, down on Caroline Bay, was the most monstrously dangerous thing I ever saw in a playground, kids got viciously clocked on the noggin by it when it reared back in full steam, or crushed their fingers in the vast hinges needed to hold it all together.

I didn't care how dangerous they were care, I loved them, and when the family would travel around so my sisters could be marching girls - it's a thing - I would always disappear with two goals in mind. One was to find a shop that sold comics and had some spacies, and the other was to check out the local playgrounds and be incredibly judgemental about them. 

The Ashburton domain had some spectacular playgrounds around its vast estate - including, for my money, the best flying fox in the South Island. The Waimate domain had this thing with rings that you could grasp on, and you better hold on tight, otherwise you're coming off at 20 kays an hour on asphalt  that was laid 30 years before you were born. Pleasent Point - where I thought the Mothman lived - had the best fireman's pole, just the perfect length.

The only time I got properly beaten up was at the Mosgiel playground, some local kids taking exception when I just wanted to play on a fucking tractor. So, y'know, fuck Mosgiel forever.

Just as I was growing out of spending all my time at playgrounds, a new kind appeared. I don't know what the technical term was, but we called them adventure playgrounds. Instead of hard steel swings and see-saws, these were wooden constructions, full of climbing towers and rope birdges and log trails, with bark beneath to break your fall.

And then I grew up, and playgrounds were just the places where you met with your mates late on weekend nights, with a rigger of beer someone filched from the parents' home brew. 

Now I'm back at them several times a week, and getting snobby about them again. It takes more than a swing - although the youngest wouldn't care, he could freaking swing forever - and I'm judging them on their protection from the elements, and their design, and the neighbourhood they're in. 

They also look fucking amazing, with swooping designs in bright, primary colours. I might not have the same thrill of climbing up a rocket and jumping off - my fucking knees would shatter if I tired that today - my the little ones love it, and that's where the fun is now.