A village kid of the '60s

I grew up in the UK when milk was still delivered to the door in a glass bottle covered with tin foil. In winter you had to leave a cup for the milkman to put over the top of the bottle, to stop the blue tits pecking their way through to the cream. The only skimmed milk was what was left after the blue tits had had their fill!

We also had milk provided by the school at break time. It came in a miniature milk bottle. In the summer was luke warm to drink, in the winter the cream froze and popped through the tin cap. Ergh!!

We would wash and save the tin foil caps and thread them on a long piece of string. Dad would then take it to his allotment and tie it over the strawberry patch. It was supposed to scare away the birds, but the beggars would perch on it and enjoy the tinny tinkle it made when they bounced up and down.

Our local grocery shop sold salmon paste by the ounce and you took it home wrapped in greased proof paper. You could also buy a slab of ice cream in a cardboard box (two flavours on offer, vanilla and Neopolitan). The fish and chip shop was allowed to sell all items wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper.

The village had a telephone box with two coin slots, A and B. I don’t remember what you were supposed to do with each, but then I was only just tall enough to see the slots.

We had a village fete each year on the cricket field complete with pretend jousting tournaments, donkey rides, potato sack races and egg and spoon races. Coconut shies were banned when one of the organisers nearly got brained one year.

When it was the 1900th anniversary of our city the Queen paid us a visit with some of the Household Cavalry. I got to queue by the road to see her. My mum asked me to guess what colour she would be wearing. I guessed yellow and mum said lime green. Mum was right.

On bonfire night, there would be competition between all the dads in the street to see who could make the best bonfire. Mums would make toffee apples (great for the dentists), and we’d have hot dogs beside the fire. We locked our pets indoors, because the Catherine Wheels and rockets made such a clatter. Everyone had sparklers to wave and you had to spell out your name with them in the air. The mantra of evening was “Light the touch paper and retire quickly”. No one was ever hurt and we’d get a thrashing if we went anywhere near the Roman candles stuck in the soil at the bottom of the garden near the compost heap.

Ah, the good old days.