Poor Old Dad
Oh poor old Dad. He used to come home,
“Ello, another gas mantle gone. Who broke that?”
I suppose we’d been fighting and playing about, all you’d get is a blue flame like, you know. It had to stay like that until Dad could afford to get a new one, I suppose they was about a tenner each then, I don’t know.
Then another time, perhaps a window pane had gone. Fred had put somebody’s head through the window pane. We had to get a stick and measure it off,
“Here you are, Ern. Take that up the shop and get a new pane of glass.”
He never knew what a rule was, I don’t think he knew what two inches was from three.
Those were the days.
