My mother was a trained dressmaker and tailoress. In December 1947, when either she, or one of our neighbours, could acquire a remnant of material, she would run up a blouse, sometimes a skirt. She would also create the pattern using newspaper. I would sit in the corner of our living room playing with whatever toy was my current favourite. On a Sunday afternoon, after my father had come home from work, he would slyly sneak a look at Nellie Cotton’s bosom and smirk, as he read Aston Villa 3 Portsmouth 2, on the front page of the Sports Argus.