Although a Bradford lad, I spent 10 years at the Yorkshire Evening Post in Leeds in the 70s and early 80s and had a very good 'growing-up education' in the newspaper business. In that time, the Yorkshire Ripper was on the rampage, Leeds United flirted with Brian Clough for 44 days, Arthur Scargill was leading the miners in a futile strike and new technology wreaked havoc on old working practices and attitudes in my industry.

But the story I think I'd like to share concerns my dad - Antoni Gutowski, a Polish soldier demobbed to Yorkshire in 1949 where he met my mum, Marjorie Waggett, at a dance. They married, had my sister and me and were fairly happy for the next 50 years.

My dad changed his name to Goodson, mainly because there was a lot of prejudice surrounding foreigners just after the war, amazingly. He never spoke about Poland or the war except after his weekly trip to the pub on Sunday nights when he would come back and we'd sit - him slightly stewed and me overly tired - and he would talk.

He was a 13-year-old orphan in 1939 and was in a military school when the Germans invaded. His war story, like many of his generation, was extraordinary. He grew up on farms in rural Poland, was sent to a work camp by the occupying Germans when he reached 17 and eventually near the end of the conflict and after many adventures escaped to Italy. He was given papers and a Polish uniform by soldiers serving with the British, came to England and found a home.

I have his story in document form and one day I may write it. I’m finding that difficult.

One thing, at the age of 71, although I’m a Goodson to everyone I know, my birth certificate still says Antony Thomas Gutowski. I’m very proud of that.