My dad grew up in Bramley in the twenties and thirties in a terraced or

back to back with a row of privies at the end of the street. He told me
a story of his uncles, perhaps four, all of whom served in the Great War
and survived, a magical feat in itself to him. One Christmas they turned
up in a car, unprecedented in those days, which attracted quite a crowd.
The day went on and turned to evening. When it came time for departing,
it was discovered the car had been stolen. However, it had also snowed
and because there were so few vehicles, it was quite easy for the street
boys to follow the tyre tracks. It was not close but they tracked the
car down.

He was a cricketer and said there were so many different church teams
that there was a point on a local ginnel through fields where you could
watch three Sunday games at the same time.

He joined the navy in the second war and I recently obtained a
posthumous Arctic Star medal for his service on the convoys.