Derek,
Not tears of nostalgia tears of mirth.
One Monday (everyone washed on Monday) when I was about four, there was a terrible wailing from the wash-house of next-door-but-one.
Mrs Pickles, her ample but saggy figure draped in a floral pinafore, with knotted headscarf atop, had been putting her sheets energetically through the mangle.
First 'pinny' then right breast entered between the rollers. Once my mother realised what had occurred, I was dragged back home, but I remember the fire brigade turning up and as I watched from our garden, I saw firemen coming out of the washouse, hands over mouths, trying to silence their laughter, returning to the rescue only when they could keep a strait face.