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Pre-School.

I don’t remember much about 1934, I was not born until the 6^th. December. I have been told that my mother had been listening to Gracie Fields on the radio and had laughed so much that this induced my birth. Our house was semi-detached. It was just outside the Sheffield boundary, one of a circle of properties build around a field which, during the 39-45 war, became allotments where we “dug for victory”. We lived on the main road from Sheffield to Manchester. From Sheffield, the road passed through Hillsborough where my father and grandfather ran the family business. Trams ran through Hillsborough as far as the terminus at Middlewood. At this time, this was the extent that Sheffield was developed. Past Middlewood, what was referred to as the asylum or “loony bin” was in large grounds, mainly to the left of the road. Those inmates as were judged harmless farmed the land on both sides of the road for about three-quarters of a mile from the tram-terminus at Middlewood. During most of my early childhood and the 1939/45 war, wheat was grown. At what we called “The Lane”, Stockarth (Also Mowson) Lane formed one boundary of our little estate before running steeply up to the rural community of Worral.

Grandfather Unwin had taken the family one notch up the class ladder when he moved from Vainor Rd. in Hillsborough to what I believe was originally known as 20 Middlewood Estate. This would have been about 1925 , before my father married and purchased another house on the estate. Within the family, grandfather's house was, for many years, referred to as "Number Twenty"…. "are we going to number twenty for tea ?". . . long after the properties had been renumbered and our stretch of road became Middlewood Rd. North.

My grandfather’s house was 356 Middlewood Rd. North, just past the lane. Our house was number 326, about 200 yards away, close to Middlewood Tavern and next to this, the “Little Shop” (now demolished). We called this stretch of road “The Front”. The houses were set well back from the road on rising ground. The view from the front windows was of our small front garden. On our side of the road, there was a footpath separated from the road by a grassed border with a tree to each pair of houses. There were no houses over the road where beyond a footpath and wall, the land fell away steeply to the River Don.

Beely Wood which covered the opposite hillside was referred to as "the woods". Steam trains ran through the wood on the old London Midland and Scottish line which took the Woodhead route to Manchester.

There was little traffic on our road which continued to Oughtibridge, Deepcar and Stocksbridge before running through the wild country surrounding the Flouch Inn and hence over Woodhead to Manchester. A 20 minute bus service connected Sheffield to Stocksbridge, a good service because this was where Samuel Fox had a large steel works. Our milk came by a horse-drawn cart carrying silvery churns and ladles with long handles which dipped deep into the churn, pouring a measured pint into jugs which each household left out with a saucer over the top or sometimes carried out to a low step at the back of the milk cart where the milkman dispensed his milk. Beer for the tavern came on drays drawn by teams of cart-horses.

My earliest memories are of the sounds. Every weekday, at crack of dawn on the other side of the river from the inn, a forge started work. We were well shielded by the hillside but I can still hear the squeak as the steam which had raised the hammer escaped, followed by the THUMP as it fell on the steel ingot and shook the ground for about 400 yards around the forge. I can remember the sound of the steam trains on the hillside and away in the far distance, Chuff-ChuffChuff followed by a crash as a wagon being shunted in a shunting-yard crashed into a train of wagons being prepared for a particular destination.

One of my earliest memories is being in my cot in the small front bedroom. It was probably Sunday when my parents had a lie-in. Seeking amusement, I investigated a tin of Vaseline left within reach. Having dipped a finger, what to do with it ? I found that smearing it on the wallpaper had a most interesting effect. Standing in my cot, I proceeded to smear the entire contents of the tin over as much of the wall as I could reach, rubbing it well in. Gosh, there was a fuss about this. The wisdom of “spare the rod and spoil the child” was still adhered to by most parents. In my case it was the slipper. This was kept in the front room. On either side of the fire were two copper boxes with lifting lids. One stored coal, the other held father’s spats and slippers. Spats were felt-like covers worn over boots to keep the feet warm in winter.

The front room was the scene of most spankings, slipperings and banishments. It was an age when children were expected to know their place and to show respect to all adults, not quite in the Victorian sense but very firmly so. My father’s discipline was more predictable and understandable than my mother’s. I never resented father’s discipline, it was clear, understood and soon over. Bad behaviour or tears were never tolerated. I was either sent to bed or banished to another room.

The household ran with clockwork regularity. After a traditional English breakfast Father went to the family shop on the 9 o’clock bus. It was only a ten minute journey so he came home for lunch, and returned for tea at five. He worked on Saturdays, Thursday was Sheffield's half day. No shops

opened on Sunday when the busses only ran a restricted service, mainly for church-goers.

It was roast-beef for Sunday lunch, then the cold remains on Monday because this was washday and cooking was impossible. On Fridays, father collected lunchtime fish from the fishmonger in Hillsborough. This was usually plaice or haddock.

Meat was delivered by a boy on a bicycle. Mother would take me to Hemmings the grocers once a week. The groceries would be delivered in a cardboard box by van, being checked against the bill as they were unpacked. The man was not allowed to leave until mother was satisfied, he was then paid and took the box away for re-use.

Housekeeping in the nineteen-thirties was not easy. The electric vacuum cleaner had only just become available. Electricity was little used except for lighting so fires had to be lit and cleared daily. The most important fire was in the kitchen range. This boiled the kettle and toasted crumpets held on a toasting-fork. The range heated the oven and a back-boiler. It had to be stoked for washing, cooking and taking baths. Every Friday, the range needed “doing”. Long flue brushes had to be poked up many orifices and the whole thing black-leaded. It was a matter of pride that the steps into the house be scrubbed and a donkey-stone used to whiten the edges. Meals had to be well planned because there was no fridge. Food was either on a high shelf in the kitchen, at the head of the staircase into the cellar or on a “cold slab” in the cellar.

Town gas and coal were the only fuels. The gas supplied a single burner gas-ring and heated a “copper” for boiling clothes. In the towns, smoke from coal-fires poured from row upon row of chimneys. Burning coal produced mountains of soot, ashes and cinders. Once a week the dustmen called to empty our galvanised iron dustbin. There were no plastic liners. The men wore caps and leather shoulder-protectors, carrying the bins on their shoulders with falling ash covering them from head to foot.

Town gas and electricity were produced locally. There were no “grids” providing national distribution. Unlike “natural gas”, town gas was produced from ovens which drove off gas from coal, turning this into coke which although a smokeless fuel, did not burn easily in open fires. Town gas contained carbon monoxide (which is very poisonous) and hydrogen which made it lighter than air.

Washing and drying dominated Monday. Mrs Holmes arrived. A wooden cover was removed from around the copper boiler in a corner of the kitchen. This had a gas ring under it and all the whites were boiled. Ammonia fumes and steam filled the air. A dolly tub was humped from the cellar.

This had to be filled and emptied for washing and rinsing using jugs and buckets. There were no detergents or washing powders. Soap flakes were added to the washing water. Dolly blue came in a little cloth bag, this was swished in the rinse to give whiteness. Mrs Holmes stood over a dolly tub and poshed the clothes with a posher. This was a long broom handle with a strangely shaped copper sucker on the end. A portable hand-powered mangle was fixed to the kitchen table. This squeezed surplus water from the clothes. It was quite an art to feed clothes into the mangle without trapping a finger. Mrs Holmes chattered all the while about her daughters, Alice and Blanch. “Our Blanch” did this and “Our Alice had said…". Slowly, order returned. Wet clothes were pegged out on the outdoor clothes-lines using pegs which gypsies used to make and sell at the door. Housewives competed to be the first to peg out rows of whitest whites because this was the best way to dry and sterilize them in sunshine. Wet washdays were miserable, folding wooden racks or “clothes-horses” draped with wet clothes filled the house. Windows streamed with condensation. I made tents with these clothes-racks. Turned over they made a tent frame which could be covered with an old sheet.

Washday over, Mrs Holmes would leave, walking back up the lane to Worall which was a steep climb of nearly three miles. She did this, often twice a week, in all weathers. She was rarely ill and besides helping my mother, had her own family to look after. When washing, the clothes became “my clothes”. As a toddler, this puzzled me when many were clearly mine. She would admonish me not to mess with electric plugs or “ You will go up with Jackson’s hens”. To this day I still wonder what happened to those hens. Mrs Holmes had a hard life but lived to be over 90.

It was probably a washday when I was left pretty much to amuse myself that I let the dog out.

We had several dogs during my childhood, all Sealyhams. I left a gate open which allowed the dog

out of the back garden, down the drive and onto the road. The dog was very unlucky. A passing motorist knocked at the door. I remember everyone rushing out. The dog was given brandy but it died fairly quickly. I was about three years old.

Tuesday was ironing day. At least two flat irons were needed, one heating on the stove whilst the other was in use. Items such as shirts, loose collars and sheets were starched so that they ironed crisp and smooth. After ironing, Mother always insisted that clothes be aired. Stage one was on a wooden rack or “creel” pulled on rope to the kitchen ceiling. Stage two was being neatly folded away in the airing-cupboard which also enclosed the hot water cylinder heated by the back-boiler in the kitchen stove. I was puzzled why Mother secreted a supply of small towels in the airing cupboard. Later, at school where life's mysteries were discussed, I learned that they were jam rags without being any less puzzled.

This brings to mind the curling tongs which my mother heated in the fire and used for curling her hair.

Burning was perhaps a more apt description because of the resulting pong. I’m not sure when hairdressers first offered a “permanent wave” but she certainly used these curling tongs during my

pre-school years which roughly coincided with the five years leading to the start of the 1939 war.

Washing and ironing over, the week improved. I would be taken or, from about the age of four, sent to the little shop for an ounce of yeast. The shop kept this in large shallow tray. A square would be cut, weighed and put into a little triangular paper bag. I would nibble at the yeast on the way home, it was soft, savoury and slippery. I enjoyed baking days, helping with the stirring and scraping out the bowls. We never bought cakes or pastries. The electric mixer was not invented so everything had to be done by hand. The temperature of the oven was gauged by holding the door-handle. My mother baked every week. Her scones never tasted of soda, her pastry was crisp and never soggy underneath. My Grandfather used to say that all Unwins picked wives who were good cooks.

Like many another single child, I invented a friend. His name was BoBo. One lunchtime, my father was about to return to work. I remember asking him to say bye-bye to BoBo. Father refused saying that he could not see where BoBo was. I can still remember my uncontrollable sobs and tears. They would tell you to stop crying but try as you might, you simply couldn’t stop. I have other memories of these tender years, how cold newly ironed starched sheets were in wintertime, my fear of the dark and how the graining of the wardrobe would turn into faces. I would be awake long before anyone else and would play with a wooden egg which could be split into two halves or look at the pictures in my Rupert books. On winter mornings, the windows were covered with Jack-Frost. It was not possible to see outside without scraping away the frost which often formed fern-like patterns.

One of the highlights of my young life was when there was a toytown story on children’s hour. We would have tea whilst listening to Larry the Lamb’s adventures with Mr. Grouser. Larry had a tremulous bleeting female voice. All humans were addressed as Sir… “ Oh..(bleet).. Mr. Grouser Sir…”. There was the Inventor, the Policeman, the Mayor and Larry’s particular friend, Dennis the Dachshund who had a strong German accent. Like the thirties, the toytown world was ordered and polite. The Policeman was respected by all and under guidance from the Mayor, dispensed the law. Juniors did not cheek their elders and betters in case, as my grandfather would have said, " they were given a thick ear".

We had a long back garden on rising ground. It was about 100 yards long and was split into three sections. The lower section had a path with a lawn on either side. A flight of steps flanked by pedestals and rising grassy banks lead to a upper lawn. Beyond this, more steps lead through a rockery to the highest “working” area. To the right was a greenhouse and to the left, a toolshed which later in my life was to become my first experimental laboratory.

Considering that my father had a useless left leg and went on crutches, it was a big garden to manage. The greenhouse had an iron stove let into the outside wall. This heated the greenhouse by means of thick cast iron pipes. These pipes ran under staging on which tomatoes were grown. Little Peter was very interested in the stove, its lighting and stoking with coke . He also liked the back of the greenhouse, this was an out-of-sight location for mischief and had two water butts which contained little squiggly things. These squiggled to the depths if the butt was thumped.

At the front, the house was quite a few feet above the road. A wall retained a small raised lawn and a path lead from the bottom of the drive to steps and an entrance porch. The steep sides to the path were built up as a rockery, mainly populated by ferns. There were a great many ferns and these proved very interesting. If you held a fern at the bottom and pulled, you could slide your hand up the fern. You ended up with a handful of fronds and a nice empty stalk. Having scattered the fronds over the extent of the path, it seemed logical to continue out into the road and along the footpath. I managed to de-foliate every fern in the garden before the arrival of Authority. Authority demanded that I sweep up. I recall that female authority finished the sweeping while male authority administered the slipper.

These few years of my pre-school childhood marked the end of an unhurried age when the onion sellers from France rode on bicycles selling onions from long strings hanging on the handlebars. Gypsies still passed by in traditional caravans, the women telling fortunes at the door and selling clothes-pegs. Rag and bone men rode by, sitting on the edge of a horse-drawn cart so that it was at a crazy angle. They had shouted “Rag and bone” or “Any old clothes” so often that the words had blurred together into strange sounding cries. Knife grinders called at the door, sharpening your knives and scissors. Steam rollers rolled the roads, tended by rough-looking Irish navvy’s who kept their trousers out of the tar using string tied around their calves and ankles..

Plastics had yet to be discovered and nothing was disposable. All bottles were made of glass. My favourite drink was Tizer “ The Appetiser”. Bottles were returned to the shop for a refund. No food was sold pre-packed. The nearest telephone was at the bottom of the lane but was of limited use because hardly anyone had a telephone. Urgent messages like “Uncle Fred has died” were taken to a post-office, telegraphed from the office and then delivered to the door by a telegram-boy on a bicycle.

Most people wore hats when outdoors. Working class men wore caps. Young middle class men wore a trilby, older or more important men a homburg. This was stiffer, with a brim which turned up at the sides. Grandfather (John Robert) Unwin wore a homburg. He was a stocky well built man with a good measure of natural authority. On the bus, when the conductor collected fares, grandfather would say very gruffly “ One five nine”. This was because he was a Sheffield councillor entitled to free travel on the busses. He always wore a waistcoat festooned with a watch-chain and pocket watch. In bad weather or for walking in the country, he wore leggings. These were made of black polished leather and were strapped around the calves.

I don’t remember grandfather Unwin wearing anything but boots. My generation was one of the first to switch to shoes. Even so, I can remember pressure to wear boots in winter which I resisted because they hurt my ankles. All boots and shoes had hard leather soles and stiff leather uppers. They always hurt when new. Soft leather uppers and rubber soles did not exist. Unless boots and shoes had metal studs, the soles wore away very quickly. All footwear required frequent repair, usually after about eight weeks of regular use. Every district had one or more shoe-repair shops where cobblers replaced soles and heels. My first rubber soles were stuck onto leather soles. I hated new shoes, the leather soles were hard and shiny with no grip. They had to be worn-in for about a fortnight before having thin rubber soles glued on.

My maternal grandfather, Stenton Warhurst was older than grandfather Unwin. He had owned a cattle-feed and farmer’s supply business in Hillsborough, somewhere behind the slipper baths which were opposite the Unwin’s shop. The slipper bath was not for swimming. The small terraced town houses occupied by working families had no bathroom. It was easier to visit the slipper bath than place a tin bath in front of the fire and fill it with hot water from a kettle.

Mother (Lois) was the youngest of siblings Stanley, Henry and Annie Warhurst. My uncles Stanley and Henry were in the first World (Great) War of 1914/18. Stanley was shell-shocked and Henry was gassed, suffering poor health ever after. Their mother (Keturah Vaughan) died before the brothers went to war. Mother’s sister (auntie Annie) helped run the business. Actually, Annie was of such character that I would imagine that she quickly became the boss. This might have followed from grandfather Warhurst’s loss of moral authority following an escapade when, discovered in a state of undress and entanglement with the maid, he ran off into the fields hoping to conceal his identity. Perhaps it was the unavoidable need to return for clothing that gave the game away ? The truth is locked away in the family’s skeleton cupboard.

With her brothers at war and her eldest sister in the business, my mother had to leave college where she was training for a career in business which in her time meant becoming a short-hand typist. As the youngest daughter, my mother had to run the home when her mother died. My mother rarely said much about her family history or childhood. She enjoyed being taken to football matches by her elder

brothers but seemed not to have had the friends, self-confidence and intellectual stimulation that my father had in his early life. This is not to say that she was timid. She had standards, stuck to them and was not afraid of standing up for herself. It was many years before I learned that our home help, Mrs. Holmes, had helped my mother run the Warhurst home.

The Warhurst home in Vainor Rd. Hillsborough must have been sold when I was about three. I remember that there was a big family discussion, it being agreed that grandfather Warhurst would stay a while with each of his children in turn. I assume that he could not afford to maintain the home and was becoming too frail to live alone. When our turn came, I was moved out of the little front bedroom and into the double bed in the back bedroom. When grandpa Warhurst was in residence, he occupied the little front bedroom. To my father’s disgust, because of the episode with the maid, grandfather Warhurst went to Chapel twice every Sunday .

My mother’s family, the Warhursts, had its roots in Derbyshire. Grandpa Warhurst had a brother George. George and his wife Mary had a small family farm at Abney. Aunt Mary was an enormous woman, always bright and cheerful. Aunt Mary visited us for the first Christmas that I can remember. It must have been Christmas because I remember quite distinctly that she brought plum puddings. I also remember being clasped to a huge bosom on her arrival. Emotionally, I was pretty indifferent to this but wished that the bosom did not have large brooch, it scratched my face. I became very wary of large bosoms from that day onwards.

In order to tell the tale of the trapped finger, I need to explain that Grandpa Unwin, besides having the shop in Hillsborough, was the managing director of Tomlinsons. Tomlinsons was one of the biggest taxi firms in Sheffield. They were also funeral directors and ran a garage in the City.

On special occasions, perhaps when we went on holiday or for other BIG events, a limousine and chauffeur would be provided by Tomlinsons. One summers day, in such a car, we set off with grandpa Warhurst to visit Aunt Mary at the farm in Abney. Sliding windows divided the passengers from the driver. The drive would have taken two to three hours, it being possible in those days to stop almost anywhere to admire the view for a few minutes without disrupting the traffic. Our arrival was quite spectacular. Grandpa Warhurst got out and shut the door on my finger. I can remember the shock and my resulting hollering. My middle left finger was nastily crushed but substantially intact. After much bathing, it was encased in a huge bandage for several days and has remained very slightly deformed ever since.

I visited the farm at Abney several times. It was a small family farm. Chickens scratched around the yard and sometimes wandered into the kitchen. There was no electricity and no bathroom. Oil lamps stood in front of curved mirrors to spread more of their dim light into the room. Fit strong Males washed in the water trough outside. The bedrooms had large porcelain water jugs and wash bowls. If you wanted hot water you fetched the kettle. You did your stuff in a chamber pot under the bed or in an outdoor earth closet, throwing soil in afterwards and dodging the flies. There was no refuse collection. Rubbish was tipped into a deep ravine not far from the farm. Milking was done by hand. I remember the son, John, directing a jet of milk straight into the mouth of his dog. I don’t think (grand) uncle George did much, he was very old. Sometimes he sat and thought, or, as the saying goes, sometimes he just sat. In cold weather, so my father recounted, Uncle George would heat stones in the fire, wrap them in newspaper and stuff them inside his trousers before climbing into bed. Working such a farm was pure physical graft from dawn to dusk. You had no tractor, just your horses. You had nothing but simple tools, a plough, scythe, pitchforks and other hand tools.

My cousin Henry Jobling loved to tell the tale of the egg. Henry, a son of mothers sister Annie was a senior cousin by about 9 years. He and I had gone to stay at Abney. At breakfast, Aunt Mary gives him two eggs. I receive only one egg and say that I want two eggs like Henry. “ When you’re as big as Henry you can have two eggs”.

Every Sunday we had tea with my Unwin grandparents. Mother and Grandma (as I called her) took turns to prepare tea at 5 o’clock in their respective houses. It was a best bib and tucker formal occasion. In a sense it was a declaration of family unity and its membership of the middle class able to enjoy the use of expensive silver and china. The table would be set with all the best crockery, an immaculate damask cloth, silver jugs and teapot. The meal began with the pouring of the tea by the hostess. Nobody touched any food. it was all passing round the cups, and “do you need more hot water ?” or “can I pass you the sugar?”. Children did not touch or fiddle with one item of cutlery before every person at the table was fully served and were not allowed to leave the table without express permission. What stopped them ? Sheer moral pressure from every adult at the table and the certainty of a dusting on arrival back home.

There would be a choice of cold meats and sometimes a fish such as salmon. Father or Grandfather would serve this, ladies first, little boys last. On receiving your plate, everybody passed other items politely around… “ can I pass you the beetroot ?” There would be two plates of bread and butter cut very thinly. I never knew anyone who could cut bread as thinly as my mother. There would be a pork pie, or perhaps some potted meat. What there would not be was so much as a jam-jar or a packet. Everything would be in dishes. A cut glass dish of salad would be passed around. The table was so full that this had to be held for your neighbour so that the salad could be taken with the servers… NO fingers. . Cucumber would be in wafer thin slices, covered with vinegar. Everything was served and eaten with the correct tools or cutlery. Fish was never touched with anything but a fish-knife because it tainted the knife. Those of my grandfather’s generation usually added a generous helping of mustard to their meats. It always seemed to take ages before we could start to eat.

Nobody started until a signal from the hosts. The Unwins did not say grace but if present, Grandpa Warhurst and other relations did. After the first course at my grandparents’, Grandma would ring a little bell for the maid to clear the plates. Up to the war, my grandparents had a maid who lived in. The table would be restocked with a big bowl of fruit, more bread and butter, jam, buttered teacakes, buttered scones, buns, and a cake.

The fruit was served by the host. Again it was wait until everyone was served. The merits of the pork-pie, the only item not home made would be discussed, where it was bought and how much it cost. Grandpa Unwin would declare the price daylight robbery and remember when pork pies better than that were a penny each. He would remember when he liked nothing better than a dish of tripe and how good pigs trotters were. I was always expected to eat some bread and butter with my fruit, silently rebelling against textures which did not mix. Growing wiser, I would eat the bread first, followed the strategy of eating the boring or unpleasant bits first. It was necessary to leave a small bit of bread until the end else some sharp eyed adult would see I had none and provide another piece.

The meal took about an hour. Children did NOT leave the table. Crusts were to be eaten and plates

left clean. The alternative was clear and simple. Go to bed and scream all you like until you are better. If grandpa Warhurst was present, he went to chapel on the six o’clock bus. Pocket watches

would be compared with wrist watches “ what time do you make it ?” so that he was off in time.

Grandma (Alice) Unwin was well bred. She was a Tomlinson. Their business was established long before my grandfather had started as a pawnbroker. Father’s mother died in childbirth. It was through marriage to his second wife that my grandfather had become connected with the Tomlinson business.

In conversation, my father would refer to his "mother" meaning his step-mother Alice Tomlinson and his "real mother" meaning Francis Isabella Bennett who was the daughter of a wealthy steel-maker,

George Bennett. My grandfather, John Robert chose his wives well, both came from wealthy families.

All the Tomlinsons spoke with a slightly posh upper class accent. Grandpa Unwin being closer to the cutting edges of the real world was less refined, had taken elocution lessons as a result slightly over pronounced his H's. I was always a little confused by grandpa Warhurst, houses had “chimleys” and parcels would be "lapped" up.

My grandfathers both wore long-johns. These were really thick long-legged woollen pants. Grandfather Warhurst’s shirts were so long that each tail went between his legs and up the other side. Everybody wore lots of thick woollen underclothes because the winters were cold, there was no central heating and folk spent a lot of time either walking or waiting to travel on unheated busses and trams.

Grandma Unwin spoilt me whenever she could. She was a gentle kindly person, regularly offering games, toffees and goodies to ease the boredom of adult talk. She had a fridge. This was unusual in the thirties. The fridge was a puzzle, it operated on gas. I could never understand how a hot flame made the fridge cold. I would have been amazed to know that this same fridge was to be passed on to me, still working some twenty years later. Cold milk from the fridge tasted better than the milk at home. Sometimes there was home-made ice-cream. A cut-glass biscuit barrel was always stocked with my favourite chocolate biscuits. There was a soda-water siphon of the type now only found in antique shops. This dispensed soda-water when a lever was pressed. Its capability of shooting water for several feet greatly interested me. Soda-water added to milk had an interesting effect and became one of my favourite childhood drinks.

Grandma Unwin enjoyed a cigarette with her “gin and it”. Most adults had the odd cigarette, particularly after meals. Ladies often used long cigarette holders. Grandfather always had his pipe. He smoked this almost all the time, consuming an ounce of Bruno every week. He set himself on fire several times when he put his pipe in his pocket. He would sometimes take a pinch of snuff. Many of his generation did this. They would offer each other a pinch of snuff from engraved silver snuff boxes. Snuff is a fine powder made from tobacco. You released a pinch under your nose and sniffed. What failed to go up your nose fell on your jacket leaving this marked with the stuff. Even though wives disapproved, this counted very little to the males of my grandfather’s generation. Grandfather never gave up his pipe but he did stop taking snuff. This habit simply seemed to fade away by about 1940.

After about an hour of grown-up talk, if I was lucky, there might be some games such as snap or put-and-take. Put-and-take was played with beans or other tokens. Players started with about ten beans each, taking turns to spin a small brass top. This had a little finger twizzler atop a six sided body. After spinning and falling, the uppermost side was inscribed, “Put two” or “Take four” etc. The player had to put or take that number of beans, to or from the kitty of spare beans.

Sometimes I would be allowed to amuse myself with opera-glasses or two small guns. The guns dated back through several generations of Unwins who were publicans at Ecclesfield and Chapeltown

on the outskirts of Sheffield. One gun was an ancient small revolver, the other an even older pistol. My grandfather still had a little tin of percussion caps for the pistol. On a few special occasions, I was allowed to fire a cap. It made quite a bang, even without a charge of powder in the gun.

Grandfather Unwin did not mince his words and was free with his opinions. From an early age he used to tell me “You must blow your own trumpet ‘Cos no other buggar will blow it for you”. If anyone should have the misfortune to fart (often himself), he would look around and question … “ Has something ripped ? ”. He was always convinced that “The country was going to the dogs” and that “The Jews were the cause of all our problems”. For all that he shocked, he was always the one with some money in times of crisis. He was proud to have saved a thousand pounds by the age of thirty, a very great sum at the time. Although he was gruff, severe and well respected, he had a twinkle in his eye and was in fact very forgiving and understanding of family members. He was a reliable source of pocket money which I received from about the age of five when I started school. Later in life he was obliged to have false teeth. Father said they made him look like a horse. They also clicked when he ate.

Occasionally, grandfather Unwin would take me for a morning out. His day began at the barber’s shop where the barber would work up a huge soap-lather on his face and shave him with a cut-throat razor. This was sharpened on a leather strop which hung on the wall. We would then walk round to the family shop. In these early days it was mainly a pawnshop, drapers and jewellers, but it also sold clothes and haberdashery. My father ran the pawnshop, two female staff ran the rest of the shop. Grandfather’s office and operations centre was the back kitchen. Although he still helped a little in the shop pawnshop, he was very much the senior partner. Pledge (pawnshop) customers would enquire “ Who’s on to-day. Is it Mr. Robert (my father) or t’old Buggar ? ”.

One day, Grandfather Unwin took me rent collecting. He owned several blocks of small houses, collecting rents several times during the week from different blocks. He would knock, shout “ Rent ” and march straight in. Often the rent book and money would be waiting for him on the table. Most of the houses were two up and two down, with a small yard and an outside toilet. Only a handful of the better houses had a bathroom. One tenant bred budgies. From what I remember, on a whim, grandfather bought me one. The first that mother knew was when I arrived home with Jimmy, my first pet in a little wooden box. Jimmy turned out to be a cheery little chatterer and an excellent talker. He would perch on mother’s knitting needles as she knitted and take seed placed between my lips.

We kept Jimmy for several years but very nearly didn’t… I gave him a lot of pea-pods.

He expanded like an inflated balloon and took hours to subside. This reminds me of the day that the dog ate the Sunday joint and with a stomach extended to an unbelievable size, lay like the lion in The Lion and Albert, in a somnolent posture for about a day and a half.

Being a Sheffield Councillor, grandfather Unwin was on the committee which supervised the nearby mental hospital. One of his duties was to inspect the farm where trusted inmates worked. This is how I came to meet my first girl-friend. One day, Grandfather took me to the farm on one of his supervisory visits. The farm entrance was a little way past the lane. It ran from the main road, about 400 yards uphill. To the left we passed a dutch barn full of hay and a great many farm buildings. About half way up was a road which I was later to discover, lead to extensive grounds and hospital buildings. At the top of the hill was the Farm Bailiff’s house. The bailiff, Mr Petty, was a big, rough, gruff man. Little boys knew not to argue. I was happy to stay with Mrs. Petty and her two daughters. Monica was the elder, Billie the younger daughter was my age. We quickly became friends. Her real name was Cecelia, to her friends she was Billie. I never knew why.

I went quite often to the farm, sometimes on my own. It was quite large, with pigs, cows and horses. It had a tractor and was more mechanised than the family farm at Abney. Billie and I would play in the haystack or explore the various buildings. We would mill around during haymaking and do a bit of gleaning when crops were cut. The workers were all mental patients, more simple-minded than dangerous. One spent all his days tending and turning a manure heap.

I can remember two parties in these innocent pre-school times. One was at the “well to do” Tomlinsons, I have no idea exactly who gave the party but there was a Punch and Judy show. I knew nobody and was very shy. The other party was Billie’s birthday. Here, we played games. Musical chairs and Postman’s knock were fun. I was less happy with “Simon Says… “ and “Forfeits”.

These suited Monica and her older friends better than us little ones. Billie’s mother could play the piano and knew how to run a party. I remember that there were lots of sisters by the name of Seed.

It was later explained to me that the parents had wanted a boy. After seven girls, they gave up.

When Grandfather Warhurst was staying with us he would take me for walks. Shortly before she died, Mother gave me a letter he had written about one such walk. I must have been very young but still have a glimmer of memory of this walk . It was a time when children were put in a harness with long reigns. This allowed them to scamper ahead and, in my case, splash through every puddle that presented itself. This walk was up the lane and back down, taking a path through the fields which skirted the estate of Middlewood Hall (later an hotel). The route came back to the main (Oughtibridge) road down some very steep and slippery steps just past Middlewood Tavern. At this point, the steps descended a steeply wooded hillside. Over the road, the land fell steeply again, to a ravine with the river Don in the bottom. Somewhere in dim memory, I remember learning that a man had fallen to his death in this dark dank spot. It always made me shivery and later, when I walked home from Oughtibridge school, I never lingered in this area.

Grandfather Warhurst must have been well over eighty at this time. He was a quiet, slim man.

Sometimes he would walk me to Oughtibridge. Note: Ought is pronounced to rhyme with hoot. Grandfather W. was destined to live to be 95. He was a staunch Methodist and had brought my mother up as such. He said little of any interest but was great walker and knew how to handle horses. When I was about four, he came on holiday with us to Filey. There is a picture of me on a horse on this holiday. Grandfather borrowed the horse for an hour or two, leading it up the hill from the beach when we went for lunch at our landlady’s lodging. I can also remember a big celebration, probably grandfather’s 90^th. This was reported in the local newspaper. We all went in hired cars to a big dinner. The Lord Mayor presented grandpa W. with a walking stick which had a little lamp at the end to light the kerb when it was dark.

Running a little ahead in time, the shunting of Grandpa Warhurst around his family declined. He seemed to spend more time with Uncle Henry ( the son who was gassed in the war) and his wife, Auntie Jennie. For his last year or so, Grandpa was confined to bed at his other son’s house, Uncle Stanley’s. I sometimes visited him towards the end. This was in Marlcliffe Rd., just up Harris Rd. at Middlewood. I remember seeing him in his bedroom and hearing the roar from the crowd when Sheffield Wednesday scored. In these final years, Grandpa started going walkabout and getting lost. His last walk was on Wadsley Common where he was found cold, wet and lost by the police. He developed pneumonia and died shortly after.

Uncle Stanley had no children and was the only member of the family with a car. I'm not sure if he still worked in the Wharhurst business but he used the car to visit farmers selling cattle feed. My father could never understand why the car was never used for pleasure.

We saw more of Mother's other brother Henry, his wife Jennie and my cousins Sheila and Donald Warhurst. It was here that I first tasted and loved cheese scones. To the best of my knowledge,

Henry and Jennie both spent the whole of their married lives at Dixon Rd. Hillsborough.

We saw most of mothers sister Annie who married George Jobling, a Methodist minister from Tyneside. Methodist ministers were always moved to other "circuits" about every five years.

Of this marriage, my cousin Henry was the nearest I came to having an elder brother. He was by far the most lively and extraverted of my cousins.

Visitors to our house were always puzzled to know why, in the back room, there were dark velvet curtains on a wall that was clearly an inside wall. Peep behind and all that you found were more curtains. Privileged visitors found that the room could be converted into a private cinema. The velvet curtains would be drawn back, inner curtains being illuminated with coloured lights. Music would be playing. When the “show” began, the lights would dim as the curtains opened, revealing a small cinema screen. We would watch home movies and a few films either purchased or hired from Sheffield Photo. Co. In this, father was one of a very small group of pioneers who had used some of the earliest photographic equipment. As a boy he had progressed from making magic lantern slides to processing his own movie film which he exposed using a hand-cranked camera.

Father’s setting up of the home-cinema introduced me to Meccano. Father and my cousin Henry devised a little meccano gearbox driven by a small electric motor. The gearbox turned a pulley which operated the inner curtains of the proscenium. Lots of wires were laid under the floor and lead to a battery of sockets at the other end of the room. Here, a cabinet provided all the switches to operate the curtains, a big sliding rheostat to dim the coloured lights in the proscenium and two gramophone turntables so that continuous music could be provided.

In order to obtain a bigger picture and to provide more space, the room was lengthened by building a bay-window out into the back garden. To a four year old, all this was truly fascinating. I dug in the sand and mixed cement. I was allergic to the fine cement dust and had to have my hands wrapped in bandages for about a fortnight.

I had two favourite films. One was Mickey mouse giving his dog Pluto a bath. Pluto swallowed the soap and got the hiccups. Every hiccup produced a huge bubble. One was so big that Mickey’s head went inside it, causing him to float away, right out of his house to all sorts of adventures. The other film was about a Mr Chips who was a little stick and plasticine man. Besides the usual home movies, we had a few films that father had made with his friends before he was married. I remember another one contained a sketch called “The Clicking of Cuthbert”. A young beau called Cuthbert, out for a walk by the river with his dog, clicks with a pretty young girl. Leaning on his stick, Cuthbert doffs his hat. He drops the dog’s lead which falls down his stick at just the moment when his dog sees a cat. The dog breaks loose to chase the cat, pulling Cuthbert’s stick from under him. Cuthbert, arms flailing, falls into the river. We then see Cuthbert with his dog’s lead in his teeth, being towed ashore.

The Cuthbert sketch was one of several that Father and his friends filmed. It was the roaring twenties and they were in their early twenties. A group used to gather at my Father’s home where “Brentroyd Cinema “ produced and presented amateur films. It is not well known that Sheffield might well have become a film making area and that a great many of the earliest films were made in Yorkshire from about 1898. Between 1914 and 1916, Bamforth and Co and the Holmfirth Production Company made one hundred and twenty three short comic films. From 1903 to 1909, Sheffield Photo Company made sixty-three fictional films. I obtained this information from a booklet published in 1976 by Sheffield Polytechnic.

My father’s silent films were the only moving pictures that I saw before the age of about six or seven when I was taken to see Disney’s “ Dumbo ”, the elephant with ears so big that it could fly. Television was in its infancy. Only London had a few hours of fuzzy pictures each day. We had one radio or “wireless” as it was then called. We also had father’s “gramophone” used for his movies, this was very advanced, having electric turntables at a time when most had wind-up clockwork motors. The tape recorder was yet to be invented.

I wasn’t aware at the time, but industry was still escaping from the recession created by the wall street crash and slump of 1929. Looking back, grandfather Unwin had backed three good financial horses. Pawnbrokers do well in a slump, particularly when there is no National health service and no Social service. By second marriage, he had acquired a substantial holding in Tomlinsons which was in the developing motor and taxi trades. Tomlinsons had a garage at the bottom of Ecclesall Rd. which sold cars and a Funeral Directors business in Bedford St. These premises were known at “The Mews” because when the business began, horses were stabled there. These had been used to pull coaches and Sheffield’s horse-drawn trams. Grandfather was Managing Director. He put his personal savings into property, a very sound investment with property values about to soar in later years.

We were fortunate in being able to afford a doctor’s visit when needed. There was no free healthcare. The doctors surgery was for the working class. In my case, the need for a doctor was measured by a thermometer. If I did not have a temperature it was either growing pains or constipation for which the cure was syrup of figs or castor oil. Both effected dual cures, they cleared the system and persuaded the child to avoid the medicine by being more regular in habit.

If you had a temperature, spots or a rash, you went to bed and the doctor was sent for. Once in bed, the curtains were drawn and you would know that you would not be free again for at least three days. The doctor usually came very promptly and on arrival would request a spoon. This was stuck down your throat with the instruction “Say Aaaah”. After a few minutes of poking, probing and listening, the doctor would confer with my mother in hushed tones. Medicine was almost always a foul tasting liquid coming in a medicine bottle. Our doctor mixed his own medicines, sometimes he delivered them himself. After two days, the doctor would call again and announce that a tonic was now required. Tonics always tasted much better, so this was good news. The bad news was that you still had to have another day in bed and might be allowed up for about three hours on the fourth day.

I had most of the usual childhood illnesses and suffered tonsillitis so often that I narrowly escaped tonsillectomy. Most adults thought that you caught a cold by getting cold or wet… especially wet feet. My grandparents advocated rubbing the chest with vick (a stinking foul brown ointment) in the case of coughs and colds.

As a baby I suffered from itchy sensitive skin which was diagnosed as “dry eczema”. It is now fairly well established that this is a genetic defect exacerbated by sensitisation but am not aware of any ancestor or near relative who suffered with any allergy. Father often told me what a “terrible time” they had when I was a baby and that this had put them off having more children. As a guess, I imagine that I became too hot during the summer in a woollen vest which triggered an allergic reaction. The doctor advised lanolin to moisten the skin. Lanolin is collected from wool. It is now known that it can trigger an allergy. I grew out my baby itches but have always had to take care in cold dry conditions which caused cracks on the backs of my hands and fingers.

I once developed several boils on my neck. The traditional treatment was a bread poultice to “draw” the “matter” (pus) out and bring the boil to a “head”. Bread was mixed with boiling water and various other old-wives ingredients. Whilst warm, the poultice was applied to a lint cloth and bandaged over the boil. Experienced parents know when a boil is ready to burst and how a needle can ease the pain. My parents lacked experience and squeezed my boils before they were ready.

Remembering painful experiences, the most regular was being scrubbed by my mother at bedtime. She would examine my ears and declare “There’s so much dirt, you could grow potatoes in there”. Hands, knees and elbows had to be scrubbed. Other bits were vigorously flannelled. Mother was not short on what she referred to as “elbow grease”. In my mother’s book, dirt of all kinds was removed by lots of elbow grease. She would say “If a job’s worth doing, its worth doing well”

My mother certainly did things well. Nothing was ever swept under the carpet. In fact, most carpets were turned back and the linoleum surround scrubbed, dried and polished every week. I don’t remember anyone with a fitted carpet, they all had carpet squares. As a girl, mother would have taken these outside, hung them and beaten them. Some households saved their tea leaves, spreading them on the carpet while still wet. The leaves were then swept over the carpet to clean it by collecting dust. Most of the better-off households now had a fiendishly noisy vacuum cleaner. Ours terrified the dog, causing it to seek safety in the farthest corner of the house. We also had a “Ewbank”, a clever little box that was pushed around. Its wheels operated two rotary brushes, sweeping crumbs into two trays inside the machine. Cleaning, dusting and polishing never stopped. We never ate a meal without washing, drying and putting away every single pot and pan. From the age of about five, I was required to dry the pots as father washed them. Mother would put things away. Till the day she died, my mother never went to bed without tidying everything away… not unreasonably so but certainly to the extent that the house was always tidy and ordered with a breakfast table set ready for the morning..

Once a year, mother and Mrs. Holmes would “Spring Clean”. This involved moving everything that was movable and cleaning everything under or behind it. Floorboards were bared and scrubbed, the tops of doors and hidden ledges cleaned. Another annual event was the arrival of the chimney sweep.

Coal fires produced huge volumes of soot. This would fall out of the chimney or catch fire inside the chimney if not removed regularly. Dust sheets would be draped over everything in the vicinity of the fireplace. The sweep would cover the fireplace with a cloth, pushing his rods with a brush on the end up the chimney. I would run outside to report when the brush came out of the chimney. The sweep would leave a big pile of soot by the greenhouse. It was nasty stuff and had to weather before it could be spread on the garden.

A window cleaner called regularly, pushing a cart loaded with ladders. Mother would fill two buckets with hot water. Inside as well as outside would be cleaned with nothing but a window-leather because few of the modern cleaning preparations were available. This was not the age of DIY. The closest we came to DIY was Mrs. Holmes whitewashing the cellar. All other work was done by tradesmen who boiled their linseed oil and made their own putty. There was no bottled gas, the plumber had a proper blowlamp which was started with a rag soaked in paraffin. Pipes seemed to burst quite often in wintertime. I was always fascinated by the way that the plumber would start his blowlamp, pumping it up so that it roared. All the piping was of lead. Bursts and joints were sealed by applying a huge amount of solder. This had to be at exactly the right temperature so that it was buttery rather than molten. In this condition, the plumber would “wipe” with a wet cloth until he had created a smooth bulbous cigar-shaped collar of shining solder around the pipe.

Like all children, I soon came to see Christmas as an exciting time. On Christmas eve, a steady stream of carol singers would call. They ranged from young children who received a penny to groups of adults who would be given a shilling (5p.). In my early years I had no idea that presents came by any other route than Father Christmas descending the chimney. The fireplace in my bedroom was clearly too small, I therefore decided that he must come through one of the downstairs rooms and creep upstairs. I would be put to bed with Pengy and Teddy. A pillowcase was at the foot of the bed ready for Father Christmas to fill. On top of the huge wardrobe was a pot lamb. This was fluorescent, an idea of my parents to quell my fear of the dark. After failing to go to sleep, I would pretend to be asleep so that I would not miss my turn. This always did the trick. I would be awake at first light (far too early to disturb sleepy parents), unwrapping and investigating presents as silently as possible.

The presents were mostly something to eat such as an orange, chocolate or tin of biscuits. There might be games such as “Snakes and ladders” or a pop-up picture book. Sticky tapes had not been invented. If there was any Christmas wrapping paper, I never saw any. Parcels were brown paper tied up with string. It could take ages, untying the knots or wriggling the string off a parcel.

On two later occasions I received wooden ships. These had been made by Uncle Holmes. Theodore Holmes was the manager of the Yorkshire bank in Hillsborough. At one time, the family shop was next to the bank on Hillsborough corner. My Grandfather Unwin had lived over the shop. The families had become friends, possibly because my father(then a teenager) and Uncle Holmes shared an interest in gramophones and early radio. Whatever, one of Uncle Holmes hobbies was woodwork. He made me two magnificent models of passenger liners, one about two feet long, the other slightly longer. They were immaculately fitted out and painted.

Returning to a Christmas day about 1938, Mother would be busy preparing food, Father would spend a little time with me but would be much in demand to help with this and that. There would be a few more carollers. Apart from Church which we did not attend, nobody went anywhere. The roads were so quiet that when the village brass band walked from Oughtibridge, they would stand in the road, playing carols for about ten minutes while donation were collected from all who lived nearby. During the day, meals would be simple, perhaps bread and dripping. Beef dripping was poured from the oven-tray into a glazed white pudding basin. Although I hated fat, especially lamb fat, I enjoyed beef dripping, liberally sprinkled with salt. The pure dripping separated from the watery juices which were at the bottom of the basin. It spread like butter on a slice of bread. I also enjoyed crisps. These came in a greaseproof paper bag. Inside, a little twist of blue paper contained salt. As far as I know, there was only one manufacturer, Smith’s. There was no variety of flavour, crisps were just crisps. Often, probably after eating crisps and asking for Tizer, I would be told, “If you’re really thirsty, there’s plenty of water in the tap”.

As five o’clock and Christmas dinner approached, it would be growing dark. A lamp-lighter would put his ladder to the arms of each gas lamp on our stretch of road to open the glass and light the lamp. In later years, a little pilot light was left lit. The man just used a pole, turning a little lever to light the lamp. Christmas dinner was really special, there were many extras, particularly plum pudding, Christmas cake and trifle. These could cause problems there was sherry in the trifle and rum served with the pudding. If Mother’s sister Auntie Annie and Uncle George came, Uncle George, being a Methodist minister, would not drink or condone the consumption of alcohol. He would not eat trifle with the smallest drop of sherry in it. Mother, trapped between the Unwins (whose religion had lapsed rather badly) and the Joblings (who had been called to serve), found herself in a difficult situation. On our side, forthright opinions came from J.R. Unwin (senior) who was just about evenly matched by the force of Auntie Annie with moral support from Uncle George.

I don’t remember having turkey at Christmas until after the war. We had roast chicken. All chickens were fresh, there were no frozen foods of any kind. Father gibed at giblets, these would be thrown away or given to the dog. The stuffing had to be home made, there was no other kind. There would be sausages from a carefully chosen butcher and roast potatoes so crisp that they were hard to cut. Bread sauce and apple sauce would be cold, complementing the hot meats. I would make dams in the mashed potato to contain the smooth gravy thickened with gravy browning. I tolerated the carrots and cabbage, preferring the sprouts.

We never had wine. Ordinary folk simply did not buy or drink much wine. Nobody drank beer at home. Coffee was very rare and very special. After the chicken came the plum pudding. The extravagance of setting light to rum on the pudding was never allowed but most grown ups would add a spoonful to their portion. I was never allowed anything but custard before I was about eleven.

After the plum pudding, there would be trifle or fruit. The trifle would be made of special trifle sponges mixed with jam and soaked in sherry to an extent determined by the temperance of the guests. There was often much discussion as to how much sherry might be acceptable. The fruit was the only part of the meal that came from a can. Finally, Mother would put the Christmas cake on the table. This was a rich, iced fruit cake. She used the same decorations for years. These were a hunt, hounds and fox made in painted china. How we all ate so much I don’t know. Perhaps it was walking so much and living in a cold climate without central heating.

I was always in trouble for putting two much into my mouth. Father would say, “ He’s got a mouth like a parish oven”. If I complained about the size of my portion I would be told, “ Your eye is bigger than your stomach”.

Like many an under-five, I knew no reason not to do things unless there would be a bother or certain retribution. I did not think far ahead. This got me into trouble with great regularity.

We had visitors. I think grandpa Warhurst was in the little front bedroom. I had to sleep downstairs on a settee in the front living room. I woke up in the night in urgent need of what was then politely referred to as a number one. At the best of times I never liked the toilet, I suspected that a ghost lived there. The house was dark and silent, I was trained not to disturb adults. It so happened that there was a kettle in the room. A new chrome plated electric one that mother used to provide hot water for topping up the teapot when she had visitors. The plan was fairly simple, pee in the kettle and wash it out in the morning. The first part of the plan worked fine. Unfortunately, the grown-ups got up earlier than I expected. I really meant to do something with that kettle but somehow I didn’t. I forgot. You know, other things sort of take over and you just forget. I do remember that mother discovered that all was not well with her kettle before she boiled it and topped up the tea, it smelt strange and had a fuzzy mould growing inside.

On two occasions I caused great embarrassment. I was very stubborn, tending to resist help.

Mother was taking me on a bus which had stopped. I was minded to climb onto the bus by myself,

could not quite get my leg high enough and ran off when mother tried to help. The problem was resolved with force and a tantrum which could not be resolved in public according to normal methods of correction. On another occasion my parents had visitors. I was bored, roaming the house nosing quietly into drawers in my parent's bedroom. I found a condom otherwise known as a french letter or durex after the name of the manufacturer. Although later, when I could read I learned the purpose of the object from studying hidden books by Marie Stopes it has to be appreciated that I was innocent as to the purpose of the object and the taboo against mentioning any of its names other than in hushed tones between members of ones own sex. I therefore mistook the purpose of the object, walked into the presence of our visitors holding the object in the air and said "daddy, can I have this balloon ?".

My favourite toys were a hornby railway set and a meccano set. I played for hours with both.

My father and particularly cousin Henry helped me with the meccano. We made a windmill with

sails that turned, a crane that worked and a model ship which exploded when hit by a shell. Later, extra meccano sets were bought and Tomlinsons coffin department made a large box to hold my meccano. Henry was very helpful and ingenious, inventing a motor-driven knight that jabbed a spear as it propelled itself on wheels. Meccano gave me a hands-on feeling for how levers and gears worked. I learned how a car's differential gear was constructed and why it was needed by playing with meccano.

We always had a dog. The dog that had been run-over was replaced by Mack. Mack was a solidly built male Sealyham terrier with a streak of aggression. The problem escalated when Mack bit the man who delivered our groceries. Then he bit my father. That was the end of Mack. Father decided that a bitch would be less aggressive. Sir Jocelyn Lucas, the breeder, duly despatched a thoroughbred puppy Sealyham from some faraway place. I remember us collecting her from the railway station. Mother called her Topsy. Topsy was destined to live through most of my schooldays. These and the second world war loomed on the horizon.