Everyone smoked at home, on the bus, in the pub. The favourite was a Willie Woodbine. It was even compulsory at private schools to have a pile of tobacco on a morning to clear the lungs. Even four-minute-miler, Chris Chataway used to recommend a cigarette after his run to calm his chest.

Then sometimes for a treat I was given 4 pence to go up to the fish and chip shop for a bag of chips, having to find my way by running one hand along the house walls up this street. Because of the dense smog and fog caused by the mill chimneys, there was also an asbestos factory at the end of the next street with asbestos grains or powder in a pile. At the corner of the yard, the youngsters would wet their hands in a puddle then squeeze the dust into a ball and have a summer snowball fights. When their dads came home from work at the Asbestos Factory in winter they would put their overcoats on top of the kid’s beds for extra warmth, not realising their coats had lethal asbestos dust on them so condemning their young families to an early grave.

The factory workers were just a number, completely dispensable. In later years, when all the factories closed down, all these people were abandoned and left to fend for themselves. No new training or help. A lot of these people were ex servicemen who had seen frontline action in the war. Disgusting. Just a hire and fire mentality.