I have only one memory of the theatre but it has stayed with me for a very long time. Probably around 55 years or perhaps a little more.

I lived in Streatham – at the Green Lane end of the metropolis – and was out with my best friend on my blue tricycle in the next street. I don’t recall exactly how it happened, but I went down the road (pavement actually) faster than was good for me and collided at the bottom of the road with a very sturdy red letter box. There could only be one winner and it wasn’t me. I took a small slice out of my leg and limped, in tears, back home, which whilst just round the corner, seemed a long way.

That afternoon, my Dad was due to take me to the Streatham Hill Theatre to see a performance of Peter Pan. I was devasted. The tears continued to flow. I desperately wanted to go to see Peter Pan. I’d been looking forward to it for some time. This wasn’t the way the day was supposed to unfold. Mum patched me up with a white bandage and stopped the flow of tears. I was alive! No need for an amputation!

Dad took me to the theatre and I saw Peter Pan. We travelled by bus along Streatham High Road. I really don’t recall anything about the show, but suffice to say it was the best medicine for an injured “soldier”.

After that, my only memory of the theatre was that I passed it every day on the bus as I headed off to Tulse Hill Comprehensive in the latter half of the 1960s.

Ewen Anderson, Brisbane, Australia