Out of my childhood AGAIN:

Muffin the Mule
Before I was born, during the post-war housing shortage, my father, mother, brother, and sister lived in a caravan. The man who had originally created Muffin the Mule lived there too in a fine, old gypsy caravan. There was an orchard beside them and monks came to pick the apples. One monk was a dwarf. My sister pulled a teapot down on herself and was scalded badly. My mother would take a rifle and shoot at rats in the tip, and the doctor was so taken with the idea that he had a go too. Then they moved out and I suppose moved to Botley not terribly long after, which was were we were when I was born. My mother's great friend was Morag, whose husband was an airline pilot, and who was a total slob until her husband was due home. She'd say, "See how nice it is," about the difference. They had a number of children and one at least was christened in Madeira as they had a great friendship with the mayor. The pilot husband would eat ratafia biscuits and drink madeira. It was a toss-up whether I'd be called Vivian or Morag, but Vivian won out.