WHEN I was little, I recall vividly leaving the Boulevard, gripping my mum’s hand and tugging her to walk faster and then — magic!

For, as we turned the White Bull corner, we could hear the hurdy gurdy music that is synonymous with fair grounds.

These are my strong memories of Easter Saturday.

My mum always wanted to take us to the fair on the Monday, as it was cheaper, but we couldn’t wait.

I remember the thrill of the caterpillar as it blew it gusts of cold air and the excitement of the big wheel, roll a penny and that big wood stick clouded with candy floss.

Then, later and older, we went on the waltzer on the Saturday night and the young fairground lads would leap up so casually and cling to the back of the car flirting with all the girls. My Mum was ‘potty’ about the pot fair, and would stand enthralled at their cheeky chat and then buy plates she didn’t need.

Dodgem cars were the nearest any of us got to actually sitting and driving a car, so my brothers loved them. And then, to come home triumphantly carrying a goldfish, well, did life get any better?

Next day, there was the airing of your new clothes to Sunday school and an Easter egg, which was always a disappointment, as the chocolate was so thin.

My mum would be a bit bad tempered as we were always deluged by relatives coming to visit from far off Bury. We had to tread carefully, as a clip round the ear was on the cards. But, all in all, my childhood memories are happy ones.

Sadly this Easter, it’s not so happy. Madge, my brother Alf’s wife has died.

Funerals are such odd occasions, as, strangely, they turn out to be fairly convivial. Perhaps it’s that we are relieved it’s not ours, or because it’s one of the rare times relatives get together and you see the faces almost forgotten.

I hate the thought of being buried as I suffer from claustrophobia so, for me, It’s a burning desire to be cremated. Hope you had a lovely Easter.