Talk of broken biscuits - "brokies" as we called them - has the memories flooding back.
For a while when I was very young my father jemmied open his loose change bag and gave us graduating amounts of pocket money, the older you were the more you were granted. I got 2/- (for the younger ones, that's 'two shillings' which became 10p when we decimalised) and that was to last us the week.
The best slot for the local baths was the 4-5pm one cos it was quieter and the water was warmer, probably thanks to the body heat of a thousand other weans, not to mention their urine, from earlier in the day.
Every Christmas, one of our stocking fillers was a season ticket to the baths. If memory serves, it cost 10/- and it allowed access to the baths for 12 months. (You just don't get bargains like that nowadays.)
Entry to the baths was normally 6d (sixpence, half a shilling) so that was an expense saved.
If it wasn't raining we'd walk the mile-and-a-bit to the baths, thereby saving the 6d return fare.
The hot drinks machine at the exit from the baths took sixpenny pieces but I preferred to hold on to that money and make my way along the road to Woolworths. Back then, "Woolies" was a large gathering of counters for lots of different kinds of goods, all the counters staffed by at least two people, usually local housewives. There was a huge biscuit counter (ie, the counter was huge, not necessarily the biscuits) with every imaginable type of biscuit, loads more than you would ever see in a modern supermarket. And for years they sold the brokies in bags for however much you wanted to pay, in increments of 3d. "Sixpence worth of brokies, please?" got you a substantial bag, about the same size as a bag of sugar. Very occasionally I would treat myself to ninepence-worth.
The other thing was that if the woman behind the counter appreciated your good manners and cherubic countenance you'd get more than you were really entitled to. If she was a bitter wee bitch you might end up with a seemingly unfair portion of crumbs. However, over time you got to know who was who and who you could charm into giving you that wee bit extra.
Then it was outside again to stop at the Radio Rentals window and watch the football results coming through on the TV screens, then either a walk back up the road (uphill all the way) or the bus.
And because Saturday was traditionally bath night for us, that was a chore my mother was spared, not having to run the baths for us and sort out towels. Every now and again the nit comb appeared, greeted by a chorus of whinges but she was merely looking after her fledglings.
Happy days.
