One week after my First Confession and Communion, I finally relaxed into being seven. Everything in my world was changing, becoming new. Our money had changed, something the adults were fretful about. But I loved this new money called decimal: golden, shiny new coins that glistened like a King's Ransom.

The house where we lived, a small Victorian Terrace in Salford, Manchester, was to be demolished. So: Mam, Dad, my brother, sister, and I were moving to a spanking new house, on a Council Estate called Paddock Field.

Of course, it was neither a paddock nor a field. Instead, it was a scattering of swiftly built breezeblock boxes, all finished off with a splattering of dazzling white pebbledash. But to me, the place looked positively palatial.

Mam and Dad brought us for the inaugural viewing of our new house on a grey summer's day. Dad opened the door, and we three kids ran in. The rapturous whoops and fevered excitement from my brother and sister instantly lit up the sterile, empty space.

Me, I stood silently open-mouthed in the oblong living room, overwhelmed by its modernity. Dad stooped to my level, "What do you think, Son?" I scanned the place, searching for the right words, "Dad, it's like a Space-Age-House." He chuckled and stood up, shaking his head, "You're right there, Son, sher I'd say it was built on another planet," he said, thumping a hollow, plaster-board wall.

"What do you mean?" I asked, thrilled by the thought that our new house may have been built on Mars.

Dad, a passionate Irish builder who was proud of his brick-laying prowess, explained, "There's no skill in their making; they're mostly made somewhere else, trucked in and assembled, they're not built." He looked at me, "You'd build a better house with your Lego."

I lowered my head to hide a sudden onset of shame. I hated Lego; my playing with it was a sham – to please Dad.

......

1972 was also the year that colour came into my life – via television.

I sprinted home from school, thrust by my thirst to watch Blue Peter drenched in colour. I dived through the door to see my brother, Dermot (five years older and fearless), lying on the floor, fiddling with a knob on the telly, "What are you doing?" I asked, slightly panicked.

"Calm it, I'm getting the colour right."

"But what if you break it? Please leave it alone," I pleaded.

Dermot was accustomed to my angst-ridden histrionics and carried on with his colour correcting while I wrung my hands and paced the room, worried he'd inadvertently botch my first coloured Blue Peter.

But he pulled back just as the opening peels of the nautical theme tune began.

I dropped to my knees, transfixed.

Then I saw them in glorious full colour: my beloved triumvirate of presenters and their pets. But something wasn't quite right. My face must have dropped because Dermot asked, "What's up? Is the colour too strong?"

My focus remained on the telly, "Look at Shep," I said, incredulous. "I am. What's up with him?"

"He's black and white!"

"Yep, there aren't no multi-coloured dogs for colour telly, our kid."

My disappointment was profound, and I made a mental note to write to producer Biddy Baxter, questioning her decision to choose a black and white dog when everybody was getting colour tellies.

......

Now, at this time, I had two passions: Beauty Pageants and Horror Films. I would watch both with equal awe and fascination.

My sister Maria (seven years older) and I would watch Miss World together, curled up on the sofa with our pencils and makeshift scoreboards, while we steadfastly ignored Dermot's protestations and constant trilling, "Switch this rubbish over!"

I revelled in the televisual beauty, secure in the knowledge that if Dermot went anywhere near the switch-over-knob, he'd receive short shrift from our commanding big sister.

When the winner was announced, Maria and I would blub along with her as she made her victory walk amongst the glitterati in the Royal Albert Hall, while Dermot swivelled a disdainful head and left us to our snotty-nosed snivelling.

When it came to indulging my love of horror films, that was Mam's domain.

Mam worked evening shifts at The Salisbury, a vast Victorian pub 15

on Salford Docks' edge (now Media City). Monday was her night off, which coincidently was the night that the BBC had their Appointment- With-Fear feature. This was a weekly horror film that usually came from the famous Hammer Horror stable.

Despite the fact I was only seven, Mam and Dad let me stay up and watch them, on Dad's conditional terms, "When you go home1, don't be telling your cousins you do be watching these films, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Dad."

Mam opened her bottle of stout, positioned her ashtray on its stand, and we readied ourselves for 'The Curse of The Werewolf,' in Technicolor.

Mam took a sip of stout, then allayed Dad's concerns, "He never watches them anyway, Sean," she said dismissively.

And she was right because every time the music signalled a scary scene, I'd dive into Mam's lap and stick my fingers in my ears, waiting for her gentle shoulder tap, letting me know it was safe to emerge. When her tap came, I'd jump up and bellow, "What happened?"

Mam sipped her stout, "I'm not watching it for you; watch it with me or go to bed," she'd say, with a wry smile.

......

That first week in our new house was wondrous. But on the last day of school before the summer break, our big adventure beckoned.

Because Mam worked in the evenings, it was Dad who prepared and cooked our evening meal. He was in the kitchen cooking mince and spuds when I came in from school. He turned from the pan and wagged the wooden spoon at me, "You don't be fretting on the journey home now; Maria will look after you, do you hear me?

"Yes, Dad."

'The journey home' was to Ireland. But Mam and Dad never referred to Ireland thus, it was always 'Home' – and us three kids spent our entire childhood summers there.

It was an epic journey, starting with a bus to the station, a train to Liverpool and then a taxi to the most exciting bit, the overnight Ferry to Dublin.

And what made the trip so daunting was that us three kids would make the boat journey alone. Due to economic necessity, Mam and Dad stayed in Manchester, only returning home for the last week of our stay.

Mam was meticulous with our clothes and appearance. On departure day, we were kitted out in brand new clothes.

"Now yous keep yourselves clean, and when you go into the town, I want the three of you looking immaculate, do you hear me?" she instructed.

"Yes, Mam," we trilled in unison.

......

In the second taxi to the boat, while Maria and Dermot took excited bets on whether it would be B & I's s the Leinster or Munster ferry, I'd feel the tears start to swell. I struggled so hard to fight them. It wasn't that I was upset leaving Manchester; I loved going to Ireland – I just so feared the sadness of Dad's goodbye.

He accompanied us onto the boat, and once he was sure our luggage was safely stowed, he'd pull Maria aside for a final pep talk.

"Could those not travelling to Ireland please disembark the ship immediately!"

When I heard those words from the tannoy, my floodgates opened, and Dad dropped down to me, his hands pressing on my shoulders.

With my head bowed, he gently shook me – there were no words nor a hug. When I lifted my head to look at him through tear-blurred eyes, I saw his jaw quivering, his lips tremoring, his eyes wet.

He, too, was fighting hard, and I felt bad. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and nodded my head to reassure him I was okay. With that, Dad stood up stoic, turned – and walked off the boat.

He didn't look back or shout goodbye because he knew how much I feared the hurt that word caused.

And I knew how much goodbye hurt our dad.