I think I must have been about 2 years old when we moved from Wales to Wiggington in Herts. Hence the reason why I never inherited the lovely Welsh accent that my Dad always had. We lived with my Great Uncle Charlie (My Grandfather's brother on my Mum's side}. Being so young I cannot remember much about this time but, for some reason, there is one occasion that I can recall. I'm not sure that I really remember it personally but I can remember my Dad telling me about it. For most of my childhood, my Mum suffered with attacks of Ulcerative Colitus which meant that she had to go into hospital from time to time. My Dad told me that on one such occasion he had just got ready to go to the hospital to visit Mum and went to call me in from the garden. As he did so he heard me scream loudly. When he went to see what was wrong, I had trodden on a piece of wood with a nail sticking out of it. As he lifted my foot to see what I had done blood spurted out all over his nice clean shirt that he had just put on! Apparently I was not badly hurt but, needless to say, he had to change his shirt before we could go to visit Mum. I'm guessing he wasn't best pleased!