When my daddy rammed his new prized Datsun Cherry into the back of an unsuspecting four door Saloon, I weeed on the Bay City Rollers.

I was lucky to have their matching pants and socks set and with my two other sisters, of which I was the meat in the sandwich, we spent the summer holidays outside our flats debating the car's colour. It was blistering and humid and we wrinkled our noses to the stench of the uncollected rubbish, overflowing from the bin stores, getting worse each day.

My four year old sister leaned on the bonnet of the new Cherry. "It's owringe", she yelled arms stretched on the front bumper pushing away rival kids when they tried to touch it.

"Er, I don't fink so!" I interjected, "It's sandy!" I mounted free gravel and white dog poo into sand dunes to make my point.

My older sister was all Miss Authority. "Sandy's not really a colour." She pointed at her Head Girl badge worn daily since her appointment. "It's sunset yellow. Mummy'll say I'm right when she gets back!"

But we all agreed the Datsun's shade was the same as the door of 1 Hattersley House. Its occupant Dogger terrorised anyone trying to enter our estate through the un-padlocked gates engraved with London County Council.

"Look!" pointed Leon. He was the oldest. "Dogger's got that man!" We all stopped protecting the car from would-be thieves and vandals, switching our attention to the plight of a man staggering towards us. My younger sister clung to my calves as the Terrier's teeth sunk into his. We cowered wide eyed behind the refuse mountain, the yelps ofDogger's victims fast becoming an entertaining daily ritual. And today, Dogger returned triumphant to his waiting post in the shade of the porch of his ground floor flat with the sandy emulsion door.

Leon started to wheeze. In the heavy pollinated air and intense heat he grappled with his inhaler. It hadn't rained for weeks. "My mum said they aint allowed to paint their door yella. Council can throw them aawt." We all nodded, waiting for someone to give us the all clear.

"Well, guess wot my mummy tol' me?" quipped Francis. He was tallest of our gang stopping the chewing of his favourite dirty sock to offer an explanation. "She saysDogger 's trained to only rip white people from limb to limb. He won't touch blacks." We gasped. His mum, Marcella, worked as a dinner lady at a local school. Being an employee and all, we trusted her every word.

My mother didn't and told me so the last time I saw her. "I'll kill that Marcella when I catch her," she hissed. Our neighbour was still stealing our milk from the doorstep and Mummy reluctantly completed her ginger tea with the tinned remains of Carnation. "Marcella's a 'Humphrey'." She tried to explain my frown away. "From the telly. ‘Watch watch out, there's a Humphrey about' Well it's she."

*******

Daddy rearranged the luggage to squeeze it all into the back of the Datsun.

"Daddy?" I nervously enquired, "Can I ride with you in the front? I won't fidget, I promise."

I wouldn't move my head at least. Aunty Mary had corn-rowed my hair so tight I had a botox-smile and was guaranteed wrinkle-free right into my forties.

"Girl!" my daddy squealed. I flinched. "You're too small and it's too far! You know how many miles Leeds is from London?"

"A million?" I was confident I wasn't far off.

He chuckled his rarely heard hyena laugh and briefly shone his eyes on mine. But he never forgave God for punishing him with all girls and no boys.

27 miles outside London, my sisters stopped mumbling songs from the top 40. The dark and distance travelled induced them into a slumber, but for me, it enhanced the worry of my rough brown knees. Eyes down, I was about tosmoothen them up should Mummy decide to return home and I filled my palms with the only freely lubricant available - my spit.

A protective arm failed to stop the screeching force of impact and with the explosive metallic crunch I slid into the foot-hold, momentarily unaware what had happened. We had collided with a stationery vehicle.

"It's gonna blow up, we're going to die!" I howled. That's what always happened on Starsky and Hutch and the visions of their explosive car scenes made my heart race. I crouched helplessly in the den of darkness, the car floor now awash with tears and home-made saliva and the Bay City Rollers got their warm shower.

Headlamps of slow moving traffic glared angrily past as we all waited on the hard shoulder under the moon lit sky. The flashing bright lights of the recovery vehicle put the Cherry's injuries on full show; it's face squashed like a bulldog's, bumper and bonnet chewed up by my father's fleeting, careless judgement of distance.

We travelled silently back to South London, a weary coach eventually ejecting us at Brixton Prison. Entering a dimly lit estate, our footsteps on uneven ground stirred Dogger from his snooze and he watched us silently from his watch tower. Up ahead my father struggled with our suitcases seemingly undeterred by a pending attack. I released yet another terrified scream echoed by my younger sister's sobs whileDogger, now hungry and snarling, hurtled up to my father.

A few feet away from his midnight snack he stopped in his tracks. Examining my face and sniffing around us, he acquiesced, then waved his head menacingly, allowing us to freely pass.

We went without car journeys and milk all drought season. Marcella continued to steal it and her kids continued enjoying the Strawberry Nesquik we never did. But at least she was right about Dogger.

And that's what I would tell Mummy if I ever saw her.