In old film on parade in funny clothes you think we dressed up for you? so you could say, Takes me back. The old days. No! It was just us being who we were. That’s how you should’ve seen us. Instead, we look poor and grimy – old bricks in old walls, costumes and junk.…

See us in overalls kicking these about.  Softs we call them, great long cigar-looking things. Eighty five pound shells they come out as. This is the day they filmed us, made it look easy, as if levers and pulleys do it, not like when one clocks you round your nut. On cranes and lathes, turners…

A great big helping of beach and sea, enough for everybody…  just. Dad’s face red as a tomato. You can spot newcomers: white arms, skinny white knees… so many clean white shirts. Our sort of people – you just have to look. Lots of pale and beige… well-groomed… No loud men… fast women. Nothinglike it,…

A new crop of children, the plumpest yet, with bunches of chrysanths and gypsophila, and Mother’s dream is a procession to Sunday School. Left up to her you’ll spend the rest of your life in your best clothes. Dad’s playing cricket and won’t save you.