Once they had been de-mobbed (left the armed services) most men were only too pleased to settle back into civilian life and enjoy simple pleasures after what had been, for most, very difficult years.

When my dad came home from the war his pleasures – apart from his family – were his garden, his ciggies, a bet on the gee-gees and the Broadway cinema twice a week when shift work at the St Anne's Board Mills permitted.

In those days it would have been a very brave MP indeed who tried to introduce a smoking ban.

During the war most servicemen received a cigarette allowance from WD and HO Wills, which was a great comfort to them.

Having a bet on the horses, however, was against the law – at least in the way working class people placed their bets.

Betting in those days was only for the "nobs" – the well off people who attended the races.

We did, however, have a "bookie" down our road in Knowle West.

As she didn't have a "runner" – someone who collected bets from the pub or street corners – we had to go to where she sat with her betting slips before her and a saucer full of money.

It was supposed to be very clandestine but the police knew all about it and every now and then she would get a tip off that the they were on their way.

All Mrs H had to do then was hide the majority of the slips, pretend she had been caught unawares and admit to taking a few bets from friends.

She would appear before the magistrate, pay her fine, and all was well for the next few weeks.

Everyone knew the local bobbies liked a little bet too.

I was always told that, if a policeman was there, to ask politely after her health and leave – which might explain why I put the bets in my knicker pocket.

However, it wasn't just dad who liked a bet – my mum did, too, and also gran.

My dad, shift work permitting, would sit down at the dining table with his paper, a stub of pencil and the pet budgie sat on either his glasses or his tea cup.

He had lost the sight of one eye some time before so even if the budgie pecked the rim of his glasses it didn't worry him.

In fact the budgie seemed to know on which side to sit.

Now since dad studied form, his selection could take a long time, but finally he would hand the slip over in a secretive manner and that's where the fun started.

Mum would ask which horse, or horses, he had backed. I always made a point of not looking at the slip so I honestly didn't know and couldn't tell her.

Mum, who sat at the dining table picking her horses, really didn't care if dad knew which ones she picked – and neither did gran.

But if dad got a look at mum's slip he would get quite cross if she had backed the same horse.

(Since dad was a mild-tempered man, his being cross never really worried anyone.)

"That's it," he would cry. "I won't win now – you are always a Jonas, Al" (my mother's name was Alice but she was usually called Al).

It was all good family fun with a warm happy atmosphere.

And if his horses came up and I collected the winnings, I might get a copper or two.

Dad sitting at the table with the budgie remains one of my favourite memories.

I wonder how many other people living in Connaught Road, where we were at the time, recall Mrs H the bookie?

See you next week.