What can you remember about your childhood? – I remember we all lived in this communal yard, and they all had children, and I bet there wa'n't happier crowd nowhere, all the families' childrens. We'd play for hours all round the, where the path went, if it were sunny, and we'd play in the street; you'd amuse yourself and be as happy as could be. We used to play – where we lived, there was, up the other side of Gas Street, was the 'ometers from the gasworks, cause we lived agen the gasworks. There was no traffic went up there, cause it went round in Thames Street, went up there, so you could play for hours. It was like more of a dead end, though you could get round in this other street. And you used to play for hours at rounders. And I bet we enjoyed ourselves more than the kids do today with all the toys they have. And I'll tell you another thing. The house was on the corner of Navigation Street and Gas Street, and all the coal carts used to come round with the raw coal to make the coke on. If you went to buy any you could see 'em doing it, were ever so interesting it was, and if you went and bought it, it were threepence half hundredweight, but chiefly I don't think my mother hardly ever bought half hundredweight, for one thing cause she hadn't got the money. The coal carts, they always used to take 'em over the kerb, and make it gee up, the horse, so as all the coke'd fall off, and the coal, and everybody were out, scrambling with their buckets. And you know my mother did all her cooking and washing and everything with this old fire grate with the coke for a big family. I were about sixteen when we left, and we went to live in Argyle Street then. Mind you, it's all down now, Argyle Street is, but I mean in them days, cause it's over sixty years since I left. And it were 63, I can remember that, it were 63 Navigation Street we lived at. Before we went there, I was six; we lived at 117  Belper Street. Now you know where that is, don't you, cause you went Belper Street School, didn't you. Ah. And when I was two and a half I had my thumb trapped off in that door, the school door, and I remember the kid's name as done it. Oliver Voce. I could've murdered him! And er, I know me dad were mad, cause he was on short – you know, in the shoe trade, they was always, you know, had hardly any work – and he hadn't got to go back this afternoon. Oh and he was hard: he got the salt and rubbed it all in. I screamed the house down, and he bundled me off to the Infirmary. We had to walk, all that way to the Infirmary, couldn't afford to go on the, on the tram – there was trams you could go on then, horse trams with the lines. And I can remember this: there was this baker called Rossi's – I think it's one of the Home Bakeries now, what they call the Home Bakeries – it was opposite Mark's Church. When me dad used to take me – he had to take me every day cause it were so bad – well, you look at that scar now to this day – and I used to lead him such a dance to buy me a cake. It was a penny. Course, unfortunately it was a penny towards half a pint, and he never wanted to part! Anyway, he was so glad to shut me up to buy me this cake. And it come as me mother had to take me if me dad wasn't off, if me dad was at work, and I used to try it on me mother; but she hadn't got it, she couldn't give it to me. But it were all I used to think of when I went past this shop. Where Brierley's is now, on that block in Wilton Street, it was a theatre on the corner called The Pavilion. Oh, it was a lovely place. You could go for about tuppence – if you could get tuppence. But it was quite nice. It was variety, like the old time variety. Well, between there and Gower Street – I can remember it ever so well – there was a lovely sweet shop. And our Christmas treat was to go and see that window trimmed up. There was a big stocking the length of the window, and there'd be toys of every description: sweets, boxes of chocolates, everything. It were delight. The window would be trimmed up beautiful. And you'd look, you know, you got ever such a joy out of it. And if there were anything on – do you know, I can remember when the Boer War finished, and we lived in Navigation Street then, and I can remember the people, they decorated garlands across from one side of the road to the other, in the bedroom windows, and all the kids paraded all round the streets, singing and ranting out, about ole Kruger – 'burn ole Kruger' – cause he were the villain in the Boer War. My father's brother were in that. But I can remember that. And I can remember if there were any elections, you know, they done the same thing then, they parade round the streets and, you know, whatever they were, Labour or Liberal, it'd be the other, it'd be 'chuck old so-and-so in the sea', and they made up a song about it. And you know, I look back and I think how happy the children were. You know where it's Burley's Way, as goes up to Mark's Church, well part of it, this end, half of it, to where the old chapel used to be, was called Archdeacon Lane, from Mark's Church; then the other, to Church Gate, was called Burley's Lane. And in this part there was a – cause we used to go to St Mark's Church School – and in this part there was a, it was just 'fore you got to the School, there was a court, with little tiny houses. And this woman, she was a pro; and one of the men she'd had, he murdered her; and – but he got hung for it, I can remember him being hung. But they used to call this woman the High Kicker. They used to say she could, if a man had got a billy hat – of course, they called them billycocks in them days, you know, hard hats they call them now, don't they – like what the snobs have – you know what I mean – well, they said she could kick her leg up and knock one off of a man's head.

So she had the name of the High Kicker. Course, it was plastered everywhere – 'The High Kicker Murdered'. That'd be when I was at school – bet I wouldn't be ten. But I can remember that ever so well.

What was it like in the Thirties? – You know, I reckon I deserved a medal then. It's funny. I decided I'd save ten pounds. And I had very little money, I'll tell you. But I considered that my own. Well, I used to buy bits, ever so cheap, to make Mary and your mother dresses, and I made things for Bill – overcoats, coats and blazer and all things like that – for next to nothing. So then I said I was going to try and get them to the seaside. So someone as come into the pub says, well, I can give you ever such a good address at Yarmouth and she's ever so reasonable. I think the first year it was two pound five. Well, I think she used to like me to go, cause on the Monday I always took them [the children] a trip out, and it were her washing day – well, you see, she got a free day. Then on the Wednesday, we used to have a good day out as well. And on the Friday. The first time we went, on the Friday it started to rain. Well, I said to myself, I don't know what I'm going to do; they've got no raincoats. So, you perhaps won't believe this, but I went into Marks and Spencer's. You know the navy gabardine lined raincoats. They was all the same price; fit Doreen up to Alan. Four and elevenpence halfpenny! It's the truth. But that were a pound went. And you can please yourself whether you believe it: I paid the train fare, and I gave 'em quite a good time and all these trips, and I didn't come back broke. But didn't I put it through the mangle sometimes to make it go a long way. But you know, I look back on that with ever such happy memories. We used to go in the third week in September. But the year the War broke out, I said to your Grandpa, I says, I'll go in July this year, I says, it's always nice in July, and I'll get the longer nights for the children. And your Grandpa always used to go in the September with some of his pals, and I used to look after the pub on me own. But it were funny I went that year – and do you know, the weather were vile that week – but if we hadn't a gone we wouldn't a gone, because the War broke out in the September and o'course your Grandpa didn't get, and course we never got again. So that were the end of our summer holidays. Oh, and it was lovely going. I always remember, when we was in Sandringham, we saw the Queen's – our Queen's – grandmother. Oh, she were gorgeous, coming through in her carriage. She was absolutely marvellous, so stately.

Can you tell me the story of the russet apples? - Our Jack's wife, she were expecting her first baby. And she said, ayer goin' market, so I says yes. O'course, she always walked; she didn't – you didn't – we lived on the Harrison Road then, and they lived in some rooms round the corner, her and my Jack. So I says to Alice, I says, 'don't them russet apples look nice. 'She says, 'yes, they look lovely. ' They was tuppence a pound – which wasn't really cheap, you didn't say, in them days; and they'd got some cooking apples – I can't remember whether they were tuppence, or whether they was a penny a pound – they might have been a penny a pound. So – 'oh,' I said, 'I'll take a pound of them apples for Dad.' Cause my dad loved russet apples. He'd have a russet apple for his tea and really enjoy it. So – course, this was after me mother had died – yes, it were when I was looking after 'em all, when Silvie was only nine [making the year 1920]. Anyway, we got out the market agen Walker's, and Alice dropped her – her bag burst and she dropped it. Well, she'd had russet apples. So I said, 'they're not blooming russet apples.' So I said, 'I'll have a look at mine.' Well, she couldn't come up for laughing – what with her being, you know, so advanced – it were only a few weeks before she have him. Oh, I stood and played Hamlet there. I said, 'come on, we're going back.' – 'I'm not going back.' – 'I am.' I raised Hell itself at that stall. He says, 'they're all the same.' I says, 'I want the proper ones – russet! I've paid for russet, and russet apples – I'm having 'em.' I says, 'If you don't damn well give 'em me, I'll upset your blasted stall.' I 'bout, frit him to death – they wa'n't like they are today, they wouldn't a stood it today. And he changed 'em, and he changed Alice's, and I think he were glad to get rid on us, cause he'd got a crowd round by the finish. Same as when I went with – oh, a long while after that – I says, 'they're nice bananas,' and I was going to pick one up, and he says, 'Can't a them.' I says, 'I'll have what I like: I'll have these.' He says, 'You can't. You're having them from the back.' I says, 'You can keep 'em from the back and stick 'em, cause,' I says, 'I'm not having any of your back rubbish. 'And it were a standard joke. Used to say, 'never go shopping with her, she shows you up.' I'd give anyone me last penny, but I hate to be done. I don't like anyone doing me. That's why I gave that man that pasting that time. Old Charlie Ato. That time when he said George was a twister, when I gorrim down and gennim a damn good hiding. I'll twist him. It's funny; I remember over something before this happened, at one Christmas they set some mistletoe up, and they were all lining up, wanting to get me under the mistletoe. So anyway, there were one or two got me under, and old Charlie come up: 'I'm waiting.' 'Oh,' I said. 'Not likely .' I shut down the trap door, shut myself in. I said, 'Not likely.' Well, I thought they'd have all had a fit. They kills 'emselves wi' laughing. – 'Poor ole Charlie. Fancy turning him down!