I remember the years of my childhood, and the bread that we cut with a knife.
When the children helped with the housework, and the men went to work, not the wife.
The cheese never needed a fridge, and the bread was so crusty and hot,
The children were seldom unhappy, and we were content with our lot.
I remember the milk from the bottle, with the yummy cream on the top,
Our dinner came hot from the oven, and not from a freezer or shop.
The kids were a lot more contented, they didn’t need money for kicks,
Just a game with their friends on the road, and sometimes the Saturday flicks.
I remember the red stone step, which was polished until it shon,
“Now don’t you dare step over it, get out and play, be gone.”
Yes, these were the words of my nan, she who we must obey,
For if you ever upset her, then there would be hell to pay!
Bathing was done in a wash tub, with plenty of rich foamy suds,
But the ironing seemed never ending, as mum pressed everyone’s ‘duds’.
I remember the slaps on the backside, and the taste of soap if we swore,
Anorexia and diets weren’t heard of, and we hadn’t much choice what we wore. Do you think that this bruised our ego, or our initiative was destroyed?
No, we just ate what was put on the table, and I think life was better enjoyed.
I remember the shop on the corner, where sweets for pennies were sold,
Do you think I’m just being nostalgic…..or am I just getting old!