Next door to Coniolla’s sweet shop, [where you could get delicious ice cream sodas and sit at the counter and spoon and suck up the long drink of rich ice cold fizz through a straw]. A dark interior, lots of brown paint and pens and ink and blotting paper. I’d cash the odd Christmas or birthday present of a postal order from some auntie or uncle [being an only child in a working class area, I had quite a few]. Before putting the money in my Post Office Savings Account. I was impressed when they stamped my book, something vaguely grown up seemed to be happening.