How can you tell if your goldfish loves you?

A goldfish in a bag from a fun fair. 

That was the sum total of our pets growing up in the sixties. The fish never lasted long enough to justify the cost of small fishbowl that had to be purchased each time my Dad struck lucky at the fair.  

Grandma Leyshon, however, had one which actually lived long enough to reach maturity; it remained in an old glass sweet jar on her draining board for 20 years. It had local celebrity status due to its extraordinary longevity.

When Charlie finally gave up the ghost, it was a borrowed bereavement. We missed Charlie of course, but there was undisputedly more room in the scullery.  Let me just take you back... the scullery was where she cooked, washed clothes in a boiler she had to fill by hand, and rung them out  using a mangle. 

Sheets would then be hung to dry outside, in a billowing line of dazzling Persil brightness or over the wooden pulley or Kitchen maid, that hung above the stove. 

The room called the kitchen contained a scrubbed table,covered with a chenille tablecloth, a battered leather chaise longue, an open fire which was part of a range where pots could boil next to the fire and a bread oven which latterly was used for warming pyjamas. 

The connection of utilities, however, meant she could abandon the open fire as a means of cooking and use a proper gas oven.  

There was, nevertheless, an open fire in the kitchen every day.

My young brother once threw a pair of dungarees on it; she caught him before the second pair went on. 

"You blaggard!" she called him, in her horror. Although three at the time, he never forgot the day his grandmother called him a blaggard. 

In her later years, when the old range was removed and replaced with a modern gas fire she confessed, midst our nostalgic demurring, that she did not miss black-leading the grate, or polishing the brasses or lugging in the coal from the coal-house outside. The luxury of instant heat was an enduring pleasure to her.  

In Heol Elli, the front room was called the parlour and that too had an open fire on high days and holidays. It was always laid ready to be lit, though she fooled many an unwary guest who glanced in thinking that glowing embers from the hearth meant it had been lit in honour of their arrival. She had, in fact, skilfully inserted some red foil from sweet wrappers amongst the coal. You instantly felt warmer even though the room was the chilliest in the house. 

As I climbed into the double bed last night, in a warm centrally heated house to take up residence next to my half-asleep granddaughter, there was a stand-off between Ted and me. Who was going to make it into that side of the bed first?  

I gave him the hairy eyeball, but as you'll have seen he has two very fine ones of his own.  

Neither pre-or post bunion op have I ever been much of an athlete... I judged the distance and jumped on to the wall-side of the bed. No room for manoeuvre. A faulty judgement meant I would catapult myself back on to a sleeping child.  

We leapt simultaneously, me and Ted, landing haphazardly in a heap.  

"Bloody dog," I said under my breath, as I was subjected to a victory lick.  

"He's more than just a dog, Grandma," came a sleepy voice from my left.  

She's right. I'd never  have had that much fun with Charlie...