My first memories of my father, were of him standing over a stove cooking, something that he loved to do. He had been a chef in the army and done all the cooking, for our family of nine.

He often said he would rather cook for a whole regiment than for us, because we were so fussy. He made good wholesome food though; it consisted of stews, soups, and fried meals of sausage, bacon and fried eggs. He tried fancier meals in the past but our palates had gotten used to the tasty and filling meals.

My father had met my mother after World War II, he had been married before, his first wife had died when his two children were young, and my mother had lost her first husband, in the war and had two children herself.

They met, fell in Love and married. Three years into the marriage my Brother, Sister, And my self were born. Times were tough for my family we lived in a two up, and two down house, without any hot water, or inside plumbing.

Ours was a crowded house as there were only two bedrooms. But somehow we managed. Father didn't work as he had Bronchitis so he spent all his time in the kitchen, while mum seen to the rest of the house, and family. The only money there was, was the dole and that wasn't much, but we never went with out.

My Father was a hard man to know, he didn't like people to get to close to him. He asked nothing, but he liked to do for people. He was the most intelligent man I Knew, and knew a bit about everything. Despite his hard ways people always came to him with their problems, when they were sick or they needed a letter wrote. He was a beautiful writer. He had a sharp tongue but people didn't seem to mind that, as he was completely trusted.