Only rich people had cars when I was as a child. Our family walked about 3 miles to my Grandparents’ home. Why I wonder? Why couldn't we enjoy a Christmas in our own home. We walked from a relatively cheery and comfortable semi-detached house in West Leeds to a run down back to back dwelling in Holbeck, with an attic and scullery and outside toilet. Home to my Grandparents, Mary and Foster Hunt and Aunty Hoy-Roy Hunt who had a glass eye and had never married. She always dressed up as Santa Claus and delivered presents to us children in the family.

What I remember most is the fabulous tea that was laid out on an old trestle table in front of a roaring fire in a black cast iron fireplace. All that amazing food, most of it I had never tasted as it was war time, and all food was rationed. Pork pies, pickles and beetroot, potted meat sandwiches, jelly and tinned fruit, trifle, oh, how I remember that trifle. There were iced buns and mince pies and Christmas cake and cheese. A feast of untold proportions. Where had all that food come from? Auntie Hoy Roy must have stolen ration books or starved the 3 of them to feed us all. Eleven grown ups and five children.

We sat on buffets, chair arms, buckets topped by cushions. We played blind man's bluff, charades and pin a tail on to a donkey's back side. Dad played the piano. We were allowed to wee in the bucket under the sink. All the grown ups eventually went to the pub, except my Mum who always volunteered to stay and look after us kids. She wasn't a pub person.

Much later on and before we left we would eat up left over food, didn't waste a morsel. Then came the long trek home, through dark depressing streets, my older sister moaning whilst I was snuggly wrapped up in a tiger skin rug sitting on top of daddy's shoulders.