Eddie sat, tongue stuck out in concentration, fixing a transfer onto the tail wing of his model spitfire. It was always the most deliciously satisfying moment adding delicate finishing touches.

He set the plane gently down on the green baize beside the others and looked at the hanger he’d made from corrugated cardboard painted matt black. Some of his earlier pieces suspended with fishing gut, hung frozen in flight, from the attic ceiling.

Gently lifting a Messerschmitt he clutched its body between thumb and forefinger and moved across to the mirror tile lake. He nose dived it down on a boat; a warship, one of ten, making ak ak ak ak noises as it swooped low. Stuttering engine failure the plane ascended away, making Eddie wheeze in over excitement.

Approaching the confines of the eaves the old man swung the fighter down towards the Flying Scotsman that came out of the tunnel he’d made in ‘73. ‘Woah woo,’ he hooted, ‘chu chu chu chu,’ he chanted as the train passed the Mallard derailed in a siding. ’Ak ak ak ak,’ he continued as he swung around the room swooping on the moving train, knocking over his bottles of home brew.