Pale pink and white coconut ice. White chocolate strawberries dipped in pink sherbet. Pink and white jellie babies. Pink and white marshmallows. Petit cakes. White icing sugar and pink flowers. Pink icing sugar and white flowers. Hundreds and thousands bread with only pink sprinkles. Pink and white balloons. Pink table cloths. Pink cardboard cups. Little pink baskets, hand made to overflow with delicacies only the palate of a four year old child could appreciate. The table on the lawn, burgeoned under this treasure trove of delights. A fairy princess, full of my own sense of self, I surveyed the landscape and was pleased with what I saw.
 Today, shops are full of pre-bought, themed paraphernalia for childrens birthday parties. Thomas the Tank Engine, Barbie, Dora the Explorer, but this was 1970 in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, and apart from a little help from houseboys and mary's (she never did trust anybody to do anything better than she could do herself), these were the adroit accomplishments of my strict and perfectionistic mother.
It was my fourth birthday party. I don't remember what I was wearing, or who was invited, or why I got into trouble. I know, on this day in particular, my grandiose perception of myself probably caused me to push to the front of the line on the slippery slide.  I just remember the food, suggesting even then a sinister predisposition for the future. I was sent to my room and fell asleep crying. When I awoke everyone had gone home. I had missed most of my own birthday. I was broken hearted, bereft, indignant. 
My father was an airline pilot in New Guinea and my mother was a 'retired hostie.' From what I've been led to believe, in the sixties, you got engaged and you resigned from your job.  I was a priveleged child. My maternal grandfather made me my own puppet show box in which I could stand with colleagues at full height and entertain the neighbours. We had countless expensive furry animal puppets. Mum has kept them all. On the odd occasion when she deems her children to be in favour, the grandchildren are allowed to play with my childhood memories.  
Llike all children my memories are eclectic. New Guinea is a hopelessly beautiful country. The sand is black. My mothers hair is black and her smile is beautiful. Shrieking with fear and excitement we clamour on to a white foam surfboard with red dots. The water is still. I like to pick the red dots out with my fingernails. 'Don't touch the bottom,' she cries. Something to do with stonefish.
It was a carefree life. My parents entertained regularly and as I drifted off to sleep, my ears filled with the music of James Last or Englebert Humperdink. 'Pleeeeease release me let me go, for I don't love you anymore.' There were purple and blue netted curtains. My brother came along when I was four which didn't impress me much. He took the centre of attention away from me. I would scream at my father to listen to me but he couldn't take his eyes off his only son. I remember the day David learnt to walk between the twin beds with dark purple chenille bedspreads. Mum and I squealed with delight and encouraged him. He went in between those beds,again and again, faster and faster, with the open mouthed joy of a toddler. There seemed to be a lot of delighted squealing in my childhood. My mother was childlike and excitable and made everything into a game.
I had a tricycle with pretty ribbons. I pulled the ribbons out, once the novelty wore off, and showed great dexterity in steering the bike with my pinkies, stuck deep into the plastic rubber where the ribbons used to be.  A wasp decided to build her nest in the bike handle. She must have flitted on the bike handle and then crawled into the steel tunnel, delighted to find such a secure nest for her eggs. Rudely interrupted by a pinky, she pierced the plump skin of my finger in an effort to save her nest. I choked on my screams, and if a wasp, like bees, does not die from losing its' sting, the poor insect would have died from fright listening to me wail. The world was dropped for me in those days. Miriam and mother would have come running. I was the centre of the universe. How dare that wasp not realise it.
Frangipani trees, bouganvillea, huge crabs boiled in gallon drums on the black beach, coconut trees, hibiscus flowers, netted bilums with babies, wooden carvings, pawpaw with sugar for breakfast, crocodiles, beetlenut, geckos, vibrant sunsets. Sitting in only underpants, resting back and draping my blonde hair over the top of a chair so as to stop it sticking to my back in the moist heat. My father and the piano. I sang along to all the tunes he played. It was my responsibility and the louder I sang the better he played. Snakes and ladder games with Dad. If I went down a snake I would of course throw a tantrum which had my father laughing until the tears ran down his face, making me even more livid. 
Independence and my childhood were claimed by New Guinea in 1974. A new era of classrooms, timetables and lessons was about to arrive. If I had known it was the end of my childhood would I have looked back? I didn't.