Having had a happy childhood, there are many events which I often like to recall. However, there is one in particular that will bring fond memories. As far back as I can remember, every Sunday morning we, my sister, and I. Ah, my sweet sister Gillian, her tireless blonde hair flecked with streaks of brown, her chubby little cheeks adorned with a rosy tint from the bite of many winters and those blue eyes, those piercing blue eyes. Almost as if looking through a frosted glass, her eyes were ones not meant for a little girl. She was a wench, a scandalous wench and my mortal enemy (as brother and sister are). would be bundled into the large, gleaming blue car, the morning sun bouncing off it’s never dulling bodywork, yes the car with the child-lock doors, I would not forgive it for many years to come for shipping me to the ‘prison’ that was my grandmother’s. Being bundled into the car against our will was no unusual affair, our attire often being the smartest outfits we possessed. These usually involved an itchy ‘Christmas jumper’ although itchy could be considered an understatement, that thing was horrid. The jumper was bottle green with great, hanging baubles of red wool adorned with a great white strip encircling the chest and depiction of a white dotted Christmas tree stretched along the stomach area and the smell; it is as if this thing absorbed all odours. I could smell last year’s Christmas dinner upon it, only drowned by the musk smell of cigarette smoke, my Gran being a heavy smoker inflicted this taint upon the jumper. What a scrumptious requiem of scent, olden, crust Christmas lunch with cigarette smoke as a chaser, a Childs dream I do say! I remember receiving this particular menace of my wardrobe on a most dreary Christmas, upon opening this ‘present’ I felt a great need to cry, the jumper was evil most defiantly evil. This was my weekly pilgrimage, or should I say ‘battle’ to visit my Gran’s home. I can remember coming up with countless, yet...