RECENT birthday greening and photographs of Dame Judi Dench sparked a trip switch in the memory box, back to the long hot summers of childhood days.

Primary and junior school was good old Haxby Road, where discipline and love were just an extension of dear dad at home.

At the end of most days we would dash off over Haxby Road bridge, straight into the garden at the side of the Rowntree dining block, pinch half a dozen crab apples and leg it to the wonderful Yearsley Baths for an ice-cold dip – no roof in those days.

I clearly remember sitting at the side of the pool next to Dame Judi, whose father was our family doctor, she in her beautiful white satin one-piece bath suit and me in my best “Wonder of Woollies” cossie.

Tongue in cheek, that was always my claim to fame, except for the time I gate-crashed the fabulous wedding at Bolton Abbey of Freddie Trueman’s daughter to Racquel Welch’s son.

My close-up photograph of Raquel, her décolletege clearly on view through a figure-hugging black dress and wearing a large white hat.

Her dark sunglasses completed the aura of the mystery guest who kept the bride waiting 20 minutes before the ceremony could start.

Barbara Woodley, Fulford, York.