ON TRIPS from Rastrick to Brighouse, to the barbers, we went down Capel Street, turned left, passed the little wooden hut at the bottom of the hill, the sweet shop.
We'd buy kali in white paper bags with a pointed bottom, it was like coloured sugar. You'd eat it by dipping a licked finger in the bag and sucking the kali off.
When you'd finished, you had a yellowish brown forefinger which looked like a nicotine stain.
This was very desirable because it made you look like a heavy smoking adult, particularly if you had some sweet cigarettes for dessert.
A liquorice pipe was not considered as sophisticated, anyway they were all floppy and very unrealistic, even from a distance.
The other way to eat kali, avoiding a yellow finger giving the game away to your Mam, was to bite the point off the bag and allow the crystals to pour into your up turned mouth like feeding a pate de foie gras goose with a funnel.
Kali was not to be confused with, sherbet, which was sold in cardboard tubes covered in yellow paper with a liquorice straw stuck in the end.
Walking down Bramston Street we passed Wright's brandy snap works. Broken brandy snaps were available at a reduced price.
The thought that they might just contain illicit alcohol made brandy snaps very popular. I could never get enough brandy snaps. This was more to do with lack of money than rationing.
My dream of ultimate luxury was crunching brandy snaps till they pushed my gums up so high you could see the cuticles on my teeth.
We got all our pop from Mrs Jones at the next house down, across the ginnel. She sold pop from her house, nothing else just pop.
You knocked on the door, she'd open the door, take your order and disappear into the house reappearing with your bottle of pop. It all seemed slightly illegal.
My favourite was Dandelion and Burdock. It was the same rich dark brown colour as Doctor Dan's health drink from Huddersfield market.
Further down the road on the other side was a fish and chip shop. It had a sign with a picture of a lighthouse informing you that this guy was a member of the FFF. So don't mess with me or you'll answer to the Fish Friers Federation. Federations were scary.
Wasn't the FBI something to do with it? They didn't have a secret handshake, you just counted their fingers.
They usually had fingers missing because they'd lost the rhythm putting the potatoes under the chipping machine.
We only bought lollipops, not fish and chips at the Bramston Street shop because, although it was near home, there were two fish shops nearer.
The one at the top of Thomas Street near the Co-op, which for a time was owned by Uncle Tommy, and the one at the bottom of Castle Avenue owned by Alderman Harry C Nobbs.
He was also caretaker of Rastrick Grammar School and became Mayor of Brighouse in 1959. This was the fish shop we usually went to. I thought it was the best because folk came from miles away.
I don't know if they really did but a sign subtly implied this. It said: 'Extra wrapping is available on request for customers having long distances to go.'
Walking back home I had to hold our fish and chip parcel away from my body because if I didn't, the chip grease soaked through the one sheet of newspaper they onto my clothes.
This early form of waterproofing clothes, I think preceded the Barbour waxed coat method. Even so, Mam was not pleased if this happened. Extra wrapping would have solved this problem but they wouldn't give me extra wrapping because I was local, it was really for the carriage trade.
I loved to watch the assistant when she started a new pile of white wrapping paper. She put her index finger knuckle in the centre of the paper and pressing would describe small circles.
Magically the paper would make a beautiful fan separating all the papers so they were easier to pick up. When she'd finished she'd look up and say: "Yes?"
"Fish n'chips four times." I'd reply. She then always said: "W'bits?"
These were the little bits of crozzled batter that had dropped off the fish. I always replied, 'Yes' because you felt you were getting more for your money.
There was always a queue, which I didn't mind, unless there was a girl in front who would produce a cardboard box she'd managed to conceal about her person.
She'd be from the textile mill. A sigh would go up from the queue because they knew it would be a big order, a long wait, probably involving two changes of fat and the Whitby fleet having to go to sea again.
The mill cunningly sent different girls each time and cleverly disguised them by making them take their wrap-over pinnies off.
Otherwise they knew the people in the queue would grumble.