A joke within my family, at Christmas, would be, who was the previous owner of your present?

My dad and I would travel from Balham to Baker Street to see his side of the family.   They never bought us new clothes.  My aunt, his half-sister (different fathers, not that she only 50% of her torso), would give my dad jumpers from her local charity shop or from her (recently dead) husband. 

Dad would have preferred the charity option, as his brother-in-law had been a foot taller, so the arms of the jumper would hang down, making dad look like a bespectacled orangutan.  Didn’t make his tree-hanging ability any greater, though.

One year dad was given a jumper, and for once, the label had not been cut out (my aunt should never have been allowed near scissors).  My dad didn’t like it much, so decided to return to the shop, from whence it had come.

These were the days when you didn’t need a receipt.  Dad handed over the jumper, hoping he’d get a refund or coloured jumper other than the yellow he was handing back (handy if there was a fancy-dress party and you had to go as a condiment).

After a while, the assistant returned to my dad saying this line had been discontinued – for seven years.  My dad had been waiting a while, but not seven-years.

Next Christmas, my dad got his own back on his sister and gave her a Ration Book.   This was 1973.