porridge, Shredded Wheat, Kix and hot beverages.

Once out of the dairy gates Leslie transformed himself

into the legendary hero Hopalong Cassidy,

‘Enemy of Crime and Cruelty’. Sheila became Topper,

his mighty steed. A Winchester rifle sat on his lap

as he rode the dangerous Texas to Kansas cattle drive,

watchful of rattlesnakes, coyotes and those pesky injuns

before turning back up Cemetery Lane at midday,

feeding his mare lunch, ‘Eat up, Sheila, you old sausage’,

then catching the tram home for his own.

CAME INTO this world covered in boils,

always been hard of hearing and blind as a bat.

It saved me from conscription but not from persecution

as a child – the number of times I was beaten up.

Was lucky to survive my first few years when death

ran in my family like runny noses ran in others.

Diptheria, Scarlet Fever, Tuberculosis, Meningitis –

five of my grandmother’s kids died before the age of two.

The only boy to survive was William Brinkworth: Dad.

A brass machinist down at Woolwich Arsenal.

His dad was William Brinkworth, too: barracks labourer.

Oh yes, admirals, generals, leaders of men and the like.

It’s obvious where my driving ambition comes from.

Or lack of it, as Peggy likes to remind me.

She thinks the Brinkworths are as common as muck.

Well, this one hands over his pay packet every week,

thank you Mrs B, a glass of sherry at Christmas

is the extent of my alcoholic tendencies, I’ve never

looked at another woman (so’s anyone would notice),

I help with the domestics, do the gardening fortnightly

and I take Ellen out fishing on the Thamesmead marshes

just to let her slosh around in the water, bless her, or

we push each other in and return home like two strange

but smiling swamp beasts, which winds her mother up

something rotten, especially when we sully No 31

with our scummy clothes and muddy Wellies.

PEGGY’S such a dainty, doll-like little thing,

but for-mee-da-bla, as the Frenchies say. I’d never

dare raise my voice to her. She was so small

at birth she had to be wrapped up in cotton wool.

A whippet of a waist, too, fits nicely round my hands.

So lovely in those pretty floral dresses she makes.

I still look forward to our ‘unholy communion’, although

I’ve never seen her peachy beauty unclothed.

Even in darkness she turns her head away.

I’ve seen her cleavage once or twice. Very nice, too.

But there are things I’d like to do. I am a man,

and I wish she’d leave God outside the bedroom.

Evenings I have a smoke and read the News Chronicle

or do the accounts from my rounds. I’m a whizz

at mental arithmetic. It’s good to be good at something.

I was rarely in school on account of poor health.

Peggy sews, knits, crochets, listen to the wireless.

Sometimes Mr Hardman from down the road pops in,