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Swing Girl



STORY #92  -  Linda 

I was maybe 10, at my aunt's house playing on the swing set with my cousins who were all younger than I. I thought I could show off and climbed to the top of the swing set while one of my cousins was swinging, and the swing jammed my finger between it and the top rail. I felt it getting tighter and tighter until it reached the maximum squishing amount, then loosened as the swing swung back. It hurt like crazy, but there was nothing I could do until it released my finger. I thought I was going to pass out, but I had to climb back down, I couldn’t let myself fall from the top! I didn’t tell anyone because I thought I’d be in trouble. I still love swinging, just from the correct seated position.

STORY #80  -  Niki 

I found freedom Upon the swing They'd sent me away But I found a way in Swinging higher, As a child I found my own way to fly

STORY #29  -  R. Tully  NSW

‘Mamma, mamma’ my toddler insisted pointing at the swing. Not sure I’d be able to manoeuvre my arse into it, I sidled onto the seat and started swinging. I remember this feeling of flying through the air, swinging my legs automatically to make it go higher.


As a child I could swing for what felt like hours, as an adult I was overcome with nausea and jumped off.


‘More’, he insisted, clapping his pudgy hands.

‘No more mate, no more.’

STORY #39  -  T Morris 

I can’t remember the actual name of it, but the small park at the end of my street is where all the neighbourhood kids would meet, play and get up to the mischief of kids. It was a small park that sat between two terrace houses with just a couple of swings, a roundabout, and what we called the ‘monkey bars’ - a silver-painted, steel climbing frame that kids often broke bones falling from.


While the park was tiny and the equipment pretty basic it had the added thrill of the White Alsatian dog we called ‘Fang’ who lived behind the park and roamed the streets of Forest Lodge looking for children to bite.

In the 70’s, dogs were allowed to roam the streets and crap where they pleased and the free-range, neighbourhood dog could be a lovely, smiley puppy to bring home and show mum or a wild, untamed beast who would see you walk the long way home from school for 3 years. In our neighbourhood, Fang the white Alsatian was the latter.


If you saw Fang heading into the park you only had a couple of options – 1. stay still, don’t make eye contact and hope he was going home for his dinner, or 2. run for the monkey bars, climb like hell to the top and scream until you were rescued by an adult.


I climbed those monkey bars to escape Fang on a few occasions. Once he even stayed and growled at us with his big shiny teeth for what felt like half an hour. He eventually got bored and left to find another helpless neighbourhood kid to intimidate and terrorise. 



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