Once in a while, my thoughts drift back to what feels like simpler times. They probably were not any simpler but the experience and innocence of growing up and being cared for in a family-centered cocoon protected us from the woes of a wider world. We were not the perfect family and like many others we had skeletons firmly locked away in cupboards and boundaries we knew better than to cross. At the age of eleven, I knew none of the intrigue. One lasting memory is the Sunday get-together.

Every Sunday, sometime after lunch, our wider family would descend on Grandma and Grandad’s home for a catch-up and something to eat. The menu rarely changed. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen preparing tinned, best salmon, adding fine fresh breadcrumbs to make the salmon go further and finishing it off with a small amount of melted butter she would carefully pour over the salmon, the butter setting as it hit the cool glass edges of the bowl. Salad with boiled eggs, potato and onion patties, boiled ham or beef, cheese and homemade picallili. There would be plate after plate of cakes, buns and other home-made goodies (including Grandma’s famous custard buns) waiting to be consumed by an ever-growing gathering: Mum (Joyce) and Dad (Gordon), brother David and I, Uncle Reg and Aunty Margaret, cousins Susan and Gillian, Aunt Audrey and cousin Karen. Aunty Audrey’s husband Gerald rarely attended family gatherings preferring instead to spend time out on his farm or hunting. Audrey and Gerald’s youngest, Lindsay, was yet to be born. The food was laid out on a clean white table cloth which covered the trusty gate-legged dining table, ready for us all to enjoy later in the afternoon.

As folks arrived, bags would be dumped, coats hung at the back of the stairway door and cardies discarded as the room warmed and family matters were shared. As in most families, some family matters were discussed behind closed kitchen doors and others were openly talked about and opinions aired. Audrey would be busy setting out a box of curlers, clips, setting lotion, combs and brushes ready to perform the weekly wash and set on Grandma’s greying and thinning hair. I remember liking the weeks when she had the full perm, there was something confusingly pleasant about the smell of perming solution. I used to pinch the small squares of tissue paper that held the hair in place on the curlers as they could be used as pellets, screwed up, moistened and flicked in Grandad’s direction. Mum and Aunty Margaret would potter around, making drinks, finishing off in the kitchen, and emptying shopping bags that were used to return plates and tins from goodies taken home the week before. The weekly swap of Woman’s Own, Woman’s Weekly and People’s Friend plus the odd knitting pattern loan would generate small-scale debate on “who has had what” and “did you read…?”.

Sunday was a day for dressing up; we would all be in our good clothes, not our best. Best clothes were reserved for special occasions such as Christmas, weddings, christenings and parties. Grandma would have her wrap-around pinny on and off numerous times in one afternoon but that’s what Grandmas did. Next job, off upstairs to wash Grandma’s hair, usually several of us all wanted a go with the new gizmo, a rubber hose that connected to the taps and had a shower attachment on the end. Grandma would always get either nearly burnt or frozen to death as we played around for the first few minutes trying to get the temperature right so as not to scald her. “Ooo you little buggers” was a term of endearment frequently used.

Once the hair was washed, bags sorted and tea fully prepared and covered, Audrey, Mum and Margarets would firmly suggest a trip for the men folk and children, “why don’t you all go for a walk up to the Bowling Green or across to the park to play on the swings and roundabouts?” I always preferred a trip to the bowling green as it was always pristine. As you entered the club you would be met by a well-kept patch of turf that looked like an expensive carpet. It was always neatly edged and framed with freshly painted white boards and matching benches. There was never a weed in sight and besides a few evergreen bushes and a bit of donated bedding, it was a simple but elegant space in its simplicity.

We would say our usual “hellos” to the members who were either playing dominoes in the members’ hut or battling in small teams for the Jack on the precious green. Other members and their friends and family would be on hand to give their opinions on techniques, foot placement, spin and luck. Some weeks we’d play a game or two and tried hard to put into practice all the tips we’d been told earlier on. The bowls would end up in the rut and sometimes not. It didn’t matter. Over time we all improved our game but winning or losing was never an issue, no one cared who won or lost.

As the afternoon progressed, we made our way back. Grandma would have a head full of curlers and a hairnet, the kettle boiled and depending on numbers, we would be called to the table, A full complement of family would mean that the three sisters (Joyce, Margaret and Audrey) would eat second once the children and menfolk were fed. That’s how it worked. Supplies were refreshed and hot tea was available. Grandad would always be on a mission to tease or goad us in the nicest possible way and just occasionally either he or we would get caught doing something that Grandma or Mum and my Aunts considered inappropriate. Usually, Grandad bore the brunt of it. We carried on quietly eating until Grandad caught our eye again and the teasing commenced. He would pull a face and surreptitiously pinch our ears and noses. His hand would pull away with the end of his thumb in between his first two fingers as if he had got the tips of our ears or the end of our nose. He had done this for years and we all knew the game but were happy to indulge him.Refreshed and replenished, the table cleared and washing up done, we’d either play cards, dominoes or word games as Grandma sat under the hood of her brand new Standalone, pink and chrome hair dyer giving Granddad further opportunities to tease and torment. On rare occasions, we’d play records on Grandma and Grandad’s highly polished stereogram and moan about Grandad’s choice of record, usually Jim Reeves. Uncle Reg and my Dad would watch a bit of TV with the sound off and snooze from time to time until nudged.

Sometimes I would fall out with my brother or cousins or get in a strop for reasons long forgotten and would end up sitting in the stairwell shuffling up and down from top to bottom and back again. Waiting for what, I no longer remember but probably being overly demonstrative and attention-seeking. Refusing to speak when anyone opened the door and passed me on their way to the bathroom and back. Just shuffling up and down and side to side with folded arms. I suppose it was one way of avoiding the inevitable clouds of toxic hairspray as it was fired from all directions around Grandma’s newly washed and set head of hair. The donning of the hair-net and goodnight kisses always brought proceedings to a close. Just a normal Sunday in your average 1960’s family.

We’d make our way home, shopping bags once again filled with enough baking for the week and dog-eared magazines. I’d probably fall asleep in the car on the way home and awake feeling ready for bed. Sundays came and Sundays went. Numbers became fewer and intervals between extended but the baking continued until grandma could no longer recall what ingredients to use…….