Mam was an hypochondriac. She enjoyed ill health so she was actually a 'happychondriac'. An hereditary illness had made her deaf. She always said she was deaf because when she was a little girl a nail was poked in her eye, perhaps a childish crucifixion game that went wrong? This is interesting because if you look at those old phrenology busts, language, verbal memory and verbal expression are all centred around the left eye. I don't for a second think it's true but she was profoundly deaf and had very bad eye sight which gradually got worse. Eventually she had to use a red and white-striped stick. The usual joke was, “Is it a stick for a blind barber?”

Folk often asked if Mam and Dad had been deaf all their lives? At the time I'd say, "Not yet." They'd also inquire why didn't my parents wear 'Deaf aids?' I would point out they didn't need any thing to aid their deafness they were deaf enough. In fact they were too deaf to wear 'Hearing aids'.

Mother was always called, "Mam." It's obviously more suitable than; Ma, Mum or Mummy; Mam being short for mammary an aptly visual and tactile name so you knew it was her and which was the front in the dark. She went to Odsal House School for the deaf, where sign language was very much frowned upon. In fact it was totally forbidden. You weren't even allowed to point at things. The idea was you were deaf but your vocal cords were all right so you could be taught to talk. It was called 'Oralism.' In theory it seemed all right and for some it worked. Mam was taught to lip-read and to talk, after a fashion. Friends and relatives were the only ones who could really understand her.

I eventually taught at Odsal House with my mother's old head mistress, Miss Plant. Well my Mam called her Miss Plant; all the kids at the school seemed to call her Miss Plant, so I called her Miss Plant. Until she realised I hadn't the excuse of a speech impediment and then she informed me forcefully that she was called Miss Bland not Miss Plant. There was nothing bland about Miss Bland. She was very strict. There was only one way to do things and that was her way. She had very deep-rooted opinions that could not be shifted. So to me she will always be Miss Plant.

Mother picked up this totally black and white attitude; everything was either right or wrong no shades of grey. Her favourite word was "Selfish" and we were constantly being accused of being selfish. By which she meant we had a total disregard for her own selfishness. Things had to be done the right way, her way. It had to be, as she said, "The fashion." In other words exactly like everyone else, despite the fact that it is totally forbidden in the Bible. Leviticus 21:5: 'They shall not make baldness upon their head, neither shall they shave off the corner of their beard, nor make any cuttings in the flesh'. I hadn't had my ears pierced and I was still alright in the beard department but Mam made me have my hair cut once a fortnight in the right style, which meant short back and sides. So, when the two weeks growing time was up, off we'd go for a trip to town or what was called a "Tata" to town." Folk would say, "Are you going for a tata to town?" A bit baffling because "Tata usually meant, "Good bye." On one of these occasions it was raining and I hadn't a raincoat. I'd probably grown out of it and Granny Annie would have taken it immediately to cut up for the family rag rug. We had to break with "The fashion." I had to wear my sister's raincoat.

It fitted me because it had been bought larger so she could, as they said, "Grow into it." When she wore it you couldn't see her hands. I remember leaving the house wearing the coat, it was buttoned up and belted the wrong way. A terrible dread came over me of being spotted wearing a girl's coat that buttoned the other way, the girls' way. It could only have been worse if it had been patched. Only poor people had patches or wore odd clothes like their little sister's raincoat. Poor people, where the last child to get up in a morning had to wear what was left or they didn't go to school. The kid wasn't just, 'Sans-culotte,' the last out of bed could be, 'Sans the lot.'

I heard it said in some families that were short of clothes, when it was washday, the naked kids would take it in turns to wear their dad's flat hat to look out of the window. Now, kids are not so sensitive about odd clothes but then the prospect of having to go to school in three woolly balaclava helmets and a snake belt was scary. I say balaclava helmets because people had been knitting them since the First World War and since rationing was still on we were short of everything except balaclava helmets. Everyone had loads of them, they were very fashionable. Nowadays older folk attribute children's stuck out ears to not wearing a balaclava helmet from an early age, e.g. Prince Charles.On this day though, I wasn't wearing a balaclava because I was going to have my hair cut. I wished I'd worn my balaclava so I could have pulled it over my mouth to disguise me. To make things worse, the coat was green. Exactly the same colour as the ones worn at Whitciffe Mount Girl's School. All the local lads knew Whitcliffe Mount girls kept their handkerchiefs in little pockets stitched to their matching green knickers. We'd been told this by jealous girls, who didn't go to the school. Everyone knew girls' green raincoats always went with green knickers. Fortunately, the indignity was not added to by having to wear 'Idiot mitts'. 'Idiot mitts', were woolly mittens attached to a long string which went up your coat sleeve across your back and down the other sleeve. When you took them off they just dangled from your sleeves. Thus making it impossible to lose them. Hence the name, 'Idiot mitts'. It was said that if you were caught with one mitten off and an unkind person pulled the loose mitt very hard, the mitten you were still wearing would punch you in the face. We were constantly on the look out for kids with one mitten off. Some kids tried to get out of wearing 'Idiot mitts' by breaking the string. Their Mams just tied the string back together, thus shortening it. Kids with tied up short idiot mitt strings were easy to spot, their shoulders were always hunched up.

Mam and I set off to the barbers. I was terrified of my mates seeing me wearing the dreaded, green, girlie Mac. I tried to conceal my shame by walking slightly behind Mam, between her and the wall. If anyone approached us, she would move in front of me, letting them pass on the pavement edge where they couldn't get a good look at me. This, in it's self, was terrible because I was on the wrong side of Mam. Being a boy I should of course have been on the roadside of Mam. That was 'The fashion.' Everybody knew, gentlemen always walked on the outside. Where she'd picked up all this Nancy Mitford, "U and Non U", I don't know. Perhaps Miss Plant had taught walking up and down etiquette. 'Always walk on the outside of wife.' I had to walk on the outside, it was absolutely ingrained into me. Even from being a toddler I would always walk on the outside especially when walking with Dad. This was not because it was 'The fashion.' but because his deafness affected his balance and he would suddenly veer off like a drunkard into the road. I was there for him to trip over, a sort of biological safety barrier.The raincoat incident was so stressful. Fortunately, I never had to go through it again. When it rained Doreen wore her coat; my hair waited for fine weather and the purchase of a new dark blue Macintosh. Just like the gasman's, only shorter. The sleeves of course were longer so I could grow into it.

On these trips from Rastrick to Brighouse we went down Capel Street, turned left, passed the little wooden hut at the bottom of the hill, the sweet shop. I don't know what the shop was really called but we always called it, 'The wooden hut' or 'The sweet shop'. I'm sure it sold more than sweets because I remember a sign saying, 'Please don't ask for credit as refusal often offends.' I can't imagine kids asking if they could pay when they got their spending money for two ounces of 'Pontefract Cakes' weighed out in a little white paper bag with a pointed bottom. We'd buy kali in these little bags, it was like coloured sugar. You'd eat it by dipping a licked finger in the bag and sucking the kali off. When you'd finished, you had a yellowish brown forefinger which looked like a nicotine stain. This was very desirable because it made you look like a heavy smoking adult, particularly if you had some sweet cigarettes for dessert. A liquorice pipe was not considered as sophisticated, anyway they were all floppy and very unrealistic, even from a distance. The other way to eat kali, avoiding a yellow finger giving the game away to your Mam, was to bite the point off the bag and allow the crystals to pour into your up turned mouth like feeding a pate de foie gras goose with a funnel. Kali was not to be confused with, sherbet, which was sold in cardboard tubes covered in yellow paper with a liquorice straw stuck in the end. Miss Pring told us that on the Holy Crusades a chap called Saladin had saved King Richard's life by giving him sherbet. She didn't say anything about the liquorice straw and I didn't ask but I nearly mentioned that Saladin had a mill across from the sweet shop up Bramston Street. Fortunately, for once, I didn't say anything. The mill was actually called 'Sladdin's.' Giving someone sherbet when they were ill seemed a better idea than, ' Fennings Fever Cure,' even if it didn't work. I didn't suggest it to Mam because Saladin was obviously crackers.

Miss Pring told us King Richard had said his big straight sword was better than Saladin's little curved sword and he proved it by chopping down a tree with one swipe. Saladin then threw a silk scarf in the air and as it floated down sliced it in half and said, "Your Sword can't do that." Of course it couldn't, but why would you want to chop a silk scarf in half ... and anyway what was he doing with a silk scarf? I thought he'll get in trouble with his Missis.

" We three Kings of Orientar, selling chocolate threepence a bar.
Sherbet sev'n pence, Kali leven pence, following yonder star.
We three Kings of Orientar one in a taxi one in a car.
One on a scooter blowing his hooter, following yonder star."

Walking down Bramston Street we passed Wright's brandy snap works. Broken brandy snaps were available in big white paper bags at a reduced price. The thought that they might just contain illicit alcohol made brandy snaps very popular. I could never get enough brandy snaps this was more to do with lack of money than rationing. My dream of ultimate luxury was crunching brandy snaps till they pushed my gums up so high you could see the cuticles on my teeth . Further down the road on the other side was a Fish & Chip shop. Years later I remember older lads at this fish shop. They would buy three pen'orth of chips and fill the paper bags with as much vinegar as they could get away with. When they got outside the shop they would tear a small corner off the bags. The vinegar would stream out in a fine arc, as if peeing. No matter how often this joke was repeated they'd laugh. It was a ritual. Then, when the bags were drained they'd proceed to eat their vinegar-sterilised chips.

Sometimes they'd sing a little ditty:
"Milk, milk.
Lemonade.
Round the corner chocolate's made."
Whilst singing, they'd tap each breast for milk; "Milk, milk"
Then holding the leaking chip bag by their crutch as if peeing they'd sing; "Lemonade."
In conclusion they'd point to their bums and sing; " Round the corner chocolate's made."

The ditty's probably local because our Ben Shaw's lemonade was yellow the colour of pee. The rest of the country drank colourless lemonade. Because we only drank Ben Shaw's lemonade, for years I thought all lemonade was yellow. When I inquired why the rest of the country didn't have yellow lemonade, I was told it was because it was only available within the distance a horse could walk to deliver it from Ben Shaw's pop works. The connection between horse and yellow lemonade was noted. I took every opportunity to mention this to put people off drinking lemonade so I could have more for myself. I would hold the glass up examine it, like a vet, and say;
"The horse that delivered this is not fit for work."
I think this shop was the first to have a refrigerator. I do know he was the first to sell ice lollipops. He didn't have a proper lollipop mould so he made frozen pop ice cubes with a stick. Who would have thought this simple confection would eventually develop into Woolworth's exotic, 'Lolly Golly Choc Bomb.' The fish shop lollipops were a penny each and a much longed for treat. You could suck all the pop and colour out, leaving a colourless spongy ice cube. We dared each other to go and ask for money back on the sucked empty ice cube. You could get money back for empty pop bottles. If you were lucky enough to get a soda siphon to take back you were rich. The deposit on a soda siphon was considerably more than the soda water cost. It was rumoured that they were so valuable because crooks melted the tops down to forge half crowns. Soda water was unheard of in our house. We had to be content with the money from empty Ben Shaw's pop bottles.

We got all our pop from Mrs Jones at the next house down, across the ginnel. She sold pop from her house, nothing else just pop. You knocked on the door, she'd open the door, take your order and disappear into the house reappearing with your bottle of pop. It all seemed slightly illegal. My favourite was 'Dandelion and Burdock'. It was the same rich dark brown colour as 'Doctor Dan's' health drink from the Huddersfield market.
In the fish and chip shop there was a sign with a picture of a lighthouse informing you that this guy was a member of the F.F.F. So don't mess with me or you'll answer to the, "Fish Friers Federation". Federations were scary. Wasn't the F.B.I. something to do with it? They didn't have a secret handshake, you just counted their fingers. They usually had fingers missing because they'd lost the rhythm putting the potatoes under the chipping machine. This machine had a lever which when pulled down pushed a metal block divided into squares onto the potato thus cutting it into chips through a grid of sharp blades. The chipped potatoes dropped into a bucket underneath. The rhythm was: Potato in, hand out, lever down, chips in bucket. Potato in, hand out, lever down, chips in bucket. This was done very quickly to a rhythm. Potato in, hand out, lever down, chips in bucket. Or on a bad day:Potato in, lever down, finger in bucket. Some fish and chip shop men had what appeared to be a nervous tick in their eyes. This was the, 'Batter Blink,' caused by closing the eyes when the batter splashed off the fish as it hit the hot fat. When the shop closed at night I think they used to put the shop's takings for the day and the secret batter recipe in a tin and sink it in the beef dripping fat. When the fat cooled and set, no one could pinch the tin without taking the complete cooker.

We only bought lollipops, not fish and chips at the Bramston Street shop because, although it was near home, there were two fish shops nearer. The one at the top of Thomas Street near the Co-op,which for a time was owned by Uncle Tommy, and the one at the bottom of Castle Avenue owned by Alderman Harry C. Nobbs. He was also caretaker of Rastrick Grammar School and became Mayor of Brighouse in 1959. This was the fish
shop we usually went to. I thought it was the best because folk came from miles away. I don't know if they really did but a sign subtly implied this. It said, 'Extra wrapping is available on request for customers having long distances to go.' Walking back home I had to hold our fish and chip parcel away from my body because if I didn't, the chip grease soaked through the one sheet of newspaper they onto my clothes. This early form of waterproofing clothes, I think preceded the 'Barbour' waxed coat method. Even so, Mam was not pleased if this happened. Extra wrapping would have solved this problem but they wouldn't give me extra wrapping because I was local, it was really for the carriage trade. I loved to watch the assistant when she started a new pile of white wrapping paper. She put her index finger knuckle in the centre of the paper and pressing would describe small circles. Magically the paper would make a beautiful fan separating all the papers so they were easier to pick up. When she'd finished she'd look up and say;
"Yes?"
"Fish n'chips four times." I'd reply. She then always said;
"W'bits?" These were the little bits of crozzled batter that had dropped off the fish. I always replied, 'Yes'
because you felt you were getting more for your money. There was always a queue, which I didn't mind, unless there was a girl in front who would produce a card board box she'd managed to conceal about her person. She'd be from the textile mill. A sigh would go up from the queue because they knew it would be a big order, a long wait, probably involving two changes of beef dripping fat and the Whitby fleet having to go to sea again. The mill cunningly sent different girls each time and cleverly disguised them by making them take their wrap-over pinnies off. Otherwise, they knew the people in the queue would grumble.
One day I was in the fish shop queue and the chap at the front ockered (stammered).
He started, "F, f, f, f, f, f, f."
"Fish and chips?" the assistant said trying to help him.
He shook his head, "F, f, f, f, f, f, f."
The assistant leaned closer to him looked him straight in the face.
When he did finally speak, she wasn't going to miss it.
"F, f, f, f, f, f." He took a breath. "F, f, f, f, f, f, f, f."
The queue were getting restless this could go on forever.
He paused then quickly he said, "F, f, fuggerit I'll 'ave a bottle o' pop."
There was silence for a moment We all thought, please don't ask him what kind.
She did, we waited. He took a deep breath and said "Dandelion and Burdock."

"LOOSE LIPS DROP CHIPS"

Just past the Bramston Street fish shop there was a pin works. If the door was open you could see great parcels wrapped in sacking like Egyptian mummies tied with string. They rolled up and down on the flat bed of a big machine. If the door was closed you could sneak into the yard, break the rust crust covering a pile of iron fillings and pinch a hand full. When you got home you'd throw some on the fire so you had a sparkler fireworks display. Years later I read about some workmen who'd put iron filling in a mate's tea. The article said this was extremely dangerous because the iron reacted with the acid in the stomach and he could have exploded. If we'd only had that information when we were kids, who knows?

After the pin works you passed the butchers and the paper shop. To the left ran Scotty Bank up the hill leading back to Thornhill Road where we lived. To the side of Scotty Bank ran the railway viaduct; Bramston Street ran under it to Brighouse.

The ultimate dare was to go along the ledge that ran along the viaduct high over Bramston Street. I never heard of anyone doing it. Under the arches to the side of the street were lots of rusty old oil drums tightly packed in rows. Some had rusted through and you could see they contained what looked like solid beef dripping, very strange and mysterious. What would the 'Fish Fryers Federation' have to say about this secret hoard of dripping? One day we were playing on top of these drums. I fell between them and found a suitcase full of chocolates. It turned out these were stolen. Rationing was still on and chocolate was like gold. A real, 'Famous Five' adventure. The police came to our house and so did all the neighbours. We had a house full, all being helpful and friendly. Friendly being a euphemism for nosey. I was asked to sign a statement, they all laughed when I said,
"I don't do joined up writing." ... I still don't.
I never got a reward not even a chocolate, in fact I never heard anything more about them. I suspect it was like my donation of chocolate watches to the horology collection at the British Museum. When I inquired about them I was informed they had been eaten. They're obviously not paying them enough so I've sent them more.

Going under the viaduct the road led to a little humped back bridge over the river Calder. On the outside of the right hand bridge wall was a big pipe that ran high above the river. Crossing the river, walking on this pipe was 'A dare' and I'd done it. When you'd crossed the bridge you were in Brighouse and Bridge Road lay straight in front of you. We called Bridge Road, 'Pong Alley'. It wasn't really small enough to be an alley. We called it an alley because they had alleys in films and in the Gracie Field's song but we didn't have a single alley in Brighouse and we didn't want to be left out. We christened it 'Pong' because it ponged. It stank awful. The smell came from a crab dresser, down the alley, next to the canal. Why there should be a crab dresser so far from the sea in Brighouse, I don't know.

Off Pong Alley. to the left was Atlas Mill road, down there was, 'The Destructers.' We didn't bother with fancy euphemisms then. This was where I understood you took things to be destroyed; unloved cats, dogs, foul mouthed parrots and awkward budgies etc., 'The Destructers.' It sounds much more final than 'Put down', or if American - 'Euthanised'.
The scout hut was also on this road, I still have the scar on my leg from when I fell off the roof. The scouts here were not fine weather scouts like the Rastrick Grammar softies, who took pressure cookers camping. We didn't even have a pressure cooker at home.

I left the scouts when I was told that when Prince Charles joined he got all his cub and scout badges already embroidered on his jumpers immediately. I don't know what he'd done, but he was even given a medal at five years old. He wore it at the Coronation. Before you got to the scout hut you passed the fairground site. Some of the fairground kids came to our school for a while. We thought it very funny when they always called the female teachers,
“Marm”.
We thought they were very old fashioned and out of touch. We stopped laughing when one lad brought his Jetex powered air plane to school, a thing not only way beyond our pockets, but we'd never even heard of them. We were the ones out of touch we stopped laughing and started envying. It didn't seem like such a bad thing to be stolen by the gypsies. Then we were informed they were the children of 'Show Men', travelling fairground people, not gypsies, like Mam thought. The chance of me being kidnapped by gypsies could have been a reason, apart from the crab dresser smell, why Mam never went down Pong alley if she could avoid it. I don't know if she went down with Doreen, but with me she always went the long way round. We'd turn right at the sweet shop and go on Briggate past our barbers. Mam said my hair was curly because of the way the barber held it between his two fingers before he cut it. When I was old enough to choose, I of course went to the more fashionable 'Eddie Taylor's' for my hair cutting. Where I would get a D.A. The hair at the back of your head was combed together so it resembled a duck's arse, a D.A. I remember being disdainful when someone said.
"It won't be long before a haircut will cost ten bob, (50p). I thought the guy was an idiot.

Afterwards I'd go to the Zona Bar, which had a jukebox, sold coffee and herbal drinks including Zona beer. Girls would be posing round the jukebox. Actually the lasses were lurking. You'd casually walk up to the Juke box,

I understand the proper thing to undo knots with is that dreadful spike on a Boy Scout's penknife. The one that they always tell you is for removing stones from horse's hooves. They tell you this so you don't undo knots with it. Because if you stuck that in your eye you'd skewer your brain and give yourself an instant 'Ice pick lobotomy.' You'd stop worrying. No music shop or anything for you then. The spike is still on the knife because very few people know it's secret purpose. They still think it's for taking stones out of horses' hooves. What are the chances of coming across a horse with a stone in its hoof'? Thorns in elephant's feet are more common. Well certainly in stories they are. I sometimes wonder what the orange peeler on the Swiss army knife's secret purpose is. It can't really be for a Swiss warrior to peel oranges, can it?

I have always had a fascination for things used for the wrong purpose.

How did they make a limpet mine from a condom and an aniseed ball? I longed to be able to make a radio from a pencil, a razor blade and a safety pin like prisoners of war did. I read that spies and prisoners concealed secret messages metal tubes in body orifices. I had an empty metal container used for propelling pencil leads; it was shaped like a liquorice torpedo. I thought, this is what they must have meant. I could copy them. Although I didn't have a secret message I had a metal container and an orifice just the right size so I stuck it up without, I might add, the benefit of Vaseline. I thought I'd go out and challenge my mates to find my secret message container. Before leaving I looked in the mirror and saw that not only was my nose wider on the right but you could see the tube end shining up my nostril. I thought the Germans must have been pretty stupid not to spot it. Of course I got the wrong type of tube it should have been an aluminium cigar tube. Then I would probably have realised I'd got the wrong orifice. I hope the prisoners didn't have the same trouble getting their tubes out that I had.

O.O.O. Acronym for Homosexuals 'Other Orifice Orientated'.

My secret message ploy wasn't secret for long. I lied to Mam because I had to enlist Mam's expertise with tweezers to remove the tube. She never understood why the big boy on Brook Street had done this strange thing it to me. She eventually tired of pointing at big boys and me shaking my head. It was like Edgar Lustgarten's 'Looking for the Suspect'.

I did once manage to make a rain detector for a washing line, from a funnel, clothes peg and sugar lump. Using things for the wrong purpose can be dangerous. I found to my cost when someone used woolly thread, string and a large nut and bolt all tied to a Jacquard handloom, as a clothes dryer. When I pressed my foot on the loom treadle the woolly thread broke releasing the steel nut and bolt which smashed me in the eye. The agony was unbelievable. My eye felt like a liquorice Pontefract cake, black and flat. The lecturer, Mark Sykes, had to fill in an 'Accident Form.' He found describing how the accident occurred so complicated that he simply wrote 'Tripped over loom fitting.' Fortunately I didn't go deaf like Main with the nail in her eye or blind like the music man with the fork.

Despite the cautionary tale I still use things for the wrong purpose. I cut my sandwiches with scissors. It works great particularly with the cheaper meat sandwiches. I don't wear safety goggles whilst I'm doing it, but I do wear elastic sided boots. I can't forget Mam and the music man who blinded himself undoing the knot in his shoe. We'd stand looking in his window for ages hoping to see him. We never did. His window display never seemed to change. In it were Jews' Harps' now apparently called, 'Jaws Harps' next to what appeared to be nicely polished sheeps' rib bones. He probably got them from the rag and bone man. These things were much desired by older boys. They held a pair between their fingers and rattled out a tune. Some rich kids had them, particularly the sons of fish shop owners with missing fingers. The kids often had two pairs and played in stereo. I think they got them to annoy their dads who couldn't even snap their fingers. The dads would curse but if they'd got rhythm in the first place they'd never have lost fingers in the chipping machine, wouldn't they? I could, of course, have used spoons, which have replaced bones but to be allowed out with family cutlery was definitely not, 'The Fashion". Neighbours might think we were poor and out looking for food.

I did a show once in Geneva with Sylvester McCoy (of 'Doctor Who' fame). He was fire eating and playing the spoons. The leader of the orchestra asked him what key he was playing in. A question he'd never been asked before. Can you get tuneable spoons? Of course not, it's the wrong purpose; spoons are not for tuning they're for eating with. When you've finish eating it is acceptable to make music with the leftover bones. Bones of course can be tuned.

Next to the bones in the music shop window were pottery shiny green, slug-like things shot through with holes. These were called 'Ocarina'. I think because there was always more than one. Other wise they would have been called 'Ocarinum', which I now know means 'Little Goose'. I have visions of the principal of the original instrument being discovered by some unsuspecting diner inadvertently blowing across the parsons nose hole in the end of a goose and getting a note, like they do in jug bands, blowing across the mouths of stone bottles. Realising its potential the diner would play a tune and, before he knew it, the rest of the goose gobblers would have joined in playing bum notes. Perhaps the didjeridoo was discovered in the same way by an aborigine blowing down a hot stiff dehydrated snake to cool it before eating. Playing tunes with the leftover food is fairly acceptable but playing with it before you eat is universally unacceptable. "Don't play with your food" is indelibly engraved on every child's brain. So the pot 'Ocarina' was developed probably by pressing clay round a small goose. 'Ocarina' were fascinating noise makers but not as fascinating to us as the owner of the shop himself.

We looked, hoping he might just appear to change his window display. There wasn't a chance we could go in to the shop, music figured very low in Mam's priorities. We wondered how had he blinded himself. Why hadn't he gone deaf like Mam when the nail stuck in her eye?
We asked: "When Mam had her accident was she using a nail to undo a knot in her hair ribbon?" (Hair bows were very much the fashion in those days).
"Was he blind in both eyes?"
"Had he stuck the fork in both eyes?"
"Was it a tuning fork?" (We'd seen one at school. It only had two prongs).
"No." She'd say no more, no more information.
The man had blinded himself undoing a knot in his shoelace with a fork and that was sufficient information for anyone. What she told you was all that needed to be said about the incident.. He'd used a fork, what did he expect to happen? She didn't say this, it was implied. A friend once told me drunks are like that, they tell the same stories over and over. "I know," I said, "You've told me many times before."
It's so frustrating. Kids did a similar thing, if you asked them why a thing was so. They would reply "Cos for." If you said, "But why?"
They would reply, as if you were completely stupid, "Cos for." Life is full of "Cos fors."

Round the corner we'd come to, 'The Bow Window' pea shop. It was called the 'Bow Window', because it had a big bow window made from one sheet of glass. The glass had a crack right across it and behind it there always seemed to be a sleeping cat. A woman called 'Sausage Sarah' opened the shop in 1864. You had to step down into the shop, it was below street level and was very Dickensian. On the open coal fireplace stood huge iron pots of peas and sausages, bubbling away. The floor was covered in sawdust. You could buy grey peas or green peas. The grey peas were cheaper. My usual order was peas and a muff. If you were really broke you could have a muff and a dip. That was the muff just dipped into the peas. A muff was a teacake with a slit in it. I suppose it was called a muff because of its similarities to a lady's hand-warming muff. I didn't know at the time that this was also slang for an intimate part of a lady's anatomy. Anyway the muff did keep your sausage warm. It could of course just be short for muffin. The chap squeezed the muff in his left hand so it opened like a mouth and he ladled peas into it.The muff mouth closed on the peas and he handed it to you. It was really more like a purse of peas.

Bossy Judith Briggs worked there on Saturdays, where she earned 2/6d, (thirty pence). She started a club on Thornhill Road, which was weird to start with. We didn't start clubs. We started gangs! The lure to join her were the buns her mother baked. It wasn't enough for me. I couldn't endure the lining up for hand and nail inspection before entering the house, so I never got one of Bossy's buns. My sister Doreen carried on going. They put on plays these ladies that bun lunched at 'Bossy' - very posh..I understand she is now bossing in Barbados, or as it is now called 'using her organisational skills'. She worked alongside Jean Anderson, also a school friend. Jean lived just up the road at the Anchor pub. I particularly remember her because on the first day of junior school we were all asked what our fathers did. We all knew she lived in a pub so we were curious to hear what she said. Pubs had connotations of being mysterious wicked places. I don't know what we expected her to say. She caught us all unaware when she said, "Publican" The class, for some reason, laughed. We'd never heard the word 'Publican'. It gave Jean a kind of worldly kudos we didn't have. This was later confirmed when she was put in charge of answering the school telephone for Miss Milnes. What did we know?

To the side of the Anchor Pub was the other end of Pong Alley. Past Pong Alley the Anchor Bridge went over the canal. Now we were in the town with the big shops. John Francis Brown's was the ironmongers where you got your fireworks. Now 'Oddjobs'. Along the road was the chemist's shop where Dad once tried to send me with a note for pills. I refused to go because he wouldn't tell me what kind of pills he wanted.
I kept mouthing to him, "Pills, - what- for?"
He got more and more annoyed nodding and pointing at the note. He brought Mam to confirm the note was correct. She looked at it and said it was right. All this did was confirm that they both didn't know what they were talking about.
Shaking my head and pointing at the note, I mouthed,
"Pills- spelt- wrong." Dad shook his head vehemently, denying this. I slowly and carefully mouthed;
"Pills spelt wrong, pills spelt; P,-I,-L,-L,-S, not; P,-I,-L,-E,-S,.
I never went to the chemist that day and it was years before I realised that he was right.

Past the chemist shop was Thornton Square from which ran all the streets to great places like Woolworth's or 'Woollies'. Brighouse I think had the first self-service Woollies in England. I remember once being confused by this name. We were about to go out when a girl friend said to me let's go in Woollies. I thought this very strange, suggesting we change as it was the height of summer. Was I going like Granny?

The place I loved to go to was a shop called Penny Denham's. They sold toys and upstairs they had every boy's dream 'Meccano'. Here, I'd get more lead soldiers to replace the more severe casualties. In my play battles the main injury was decapitation so most of my soldiers had their heads held on with matchsticks. This meant you could turn their heads to make them look around, which I thought was a great advantage when approaching the enemy. I would point out this improvement to my chums particularly when I was trying to do a swap.

Wilf's new book 'My Best Cellar' (his autobiography up to the age of eleven) can now be ordered online. £ 9.99   download book sample here

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