When you are a child the world appears from an entirely different perspective from that of an adult.
I knew, for instance, that the BBC Children's TV character Andy Pandy was a girl. I mistook the pom-poms at the side of her cap for an elaborate hairstyle (the joys of black and white TV!) and pitied the narrator (whom my brother assumed was the Queen) for making that silly mistake about her gender.
I also envied her for never having to use the lavatory. I could not work this out, but seeing the way she was sewn into her clothing, I was certain that such an activity was beyond her capability or need.
The radio was full of tiny people, as busy and chaotic as ants. My mother told me I was wrong, but secretly, I knew that I was right. Those tiny peeping voices couldn't possibly come from people the same size as us. And anyway, how did they all fit into that little plastic casing the size of a cornflakes packet? You couldn't even get one person in there.
My fave guy was the Coal Man. He turned up every two weeks in a noisy, hissing lorry, heaving huge sacks of coal and coke on to his back. He had a big, loud face. And the best thing about his big loud face was that it was really, really dirty: it was smeared with pale grey coal dust and sweaty black coal-ink.
This was the most fantastic thing. I seriously wanted to be a Coal Man when I grew up; just imagine having a mother that didn't insist on you washing your face every day!