Food restrictions worsened, and family members spent most of their spare time standing in long queues, for both rationed and unrationed foods. Mam usually got us up early on Saturday mornings, as it was the day when we did most of our queuing. During breakfast, before commencing our rounds, Malc and me were briefed as to which shops might have so-and-so rarity, and if not, where to try next: One for fruit and veg, the other for leaning against Colman's bakehouse wall for two or three hours to be sure of something substantial (in preference to a clout round the ear for returning empty-handed). The agony and boredom of the endless hours standing huddled in that cold windswept lane every Saturday, through ice-cold winters, is one of the memories that comes to mind when I think about the Second World War. But I can also recall standing inside the bakehouse, thawing in the comforting heat, breathing in the delightful aroma, standing among those so easily placated, cheerfully chattering. And, the blissful satisfaction of being handed two huge white pre-packed bags of warm, sweet  smelling multicoloured cakes, and another bag full to bursting of waste cuttings. It made me feel so warm inside, and less averse to the prospect of leaning against the bakehouse wall the following week.

Next, it was to queue outside Symons', the fish and chip shop. We almost lived on their doorstep. There were strict orders for Malcolm and me to remember to double up, allowing a few people in between us, in the event of Mrs Symons running short of fish and serving reduced portions.  We'd take up our positions, and then the comments would start:

"Aren't you with the one behind?"  and usually followed with,

"You people don't care, s'long as others do wivout I s'pose."

I'd return with some bold and cheeky remark, like,  "S'long as you get yours!"

Then came the threatening reply, "What's that cheek you said then? You wait till we get to the counter, then we'll see."  Or, "What's your mother's name?"

Dreading my turn, as there were eyes and looks to kill, I croaked in my special voice, "Four  'ake and chips... err... separate please,"  my chin rubbing along the tall marble counter.

"I can only let you have two plaice," said Mrs Symons, standing at the fryer with her back to me.  Now the moment I feared most, when under Mam's orders I must say,

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