by ROY PEPWORTH
I was born in 1938 and thoughout the war and afterwards we kept chickens. Chicken was looked on as a luxury food then that you only had at Christmas and all the chickens were sold to neighbours and friends before they were killed. My father would kill the chicken and my job was to pluck the birds ready for my mother to draw out the insides and prepare for the customers. As a result the week leading up to Christmas was spent in a small living room plucking chickens and I still remember each Christmas my childhood plucking days.