On Saturdays it was broken biscuit day, my brother and I as always made our way to the Old Town.

We saved our sixpences to visit a well known store that sold off its broken biscuits, and flattened cakes, to clear the space for new stock for the following week.

We stood patiently in the long queue waiting to be served.

Finally we reached the counter and to our dismay the lady said all the broken biscuits were gone, and that we could still buy whole ones at a shilling and sixpence for half a pound.

Red faced we left the queue and wondered what to do next.

My older brother thought for a minute and said she goes for her brew at twelve o clock, you get in the queue again with our money.

I protested because I didn't want to be embarrassed again, because we couldn't afford whole biscuits.

Being dinner time the queue spilled over and the counter was a mass of people, my anxiety grew as I got nearer to the front.

My brother suddenly appeared from nowhere with a big smile, "go on" he said ask for the broken Biscuits .

My face burned red, the new lady reached over, suddenly finding loads of broken biscuits in the tins at the front of the counter.

Open mouthed I left the shop with a large bag of broken biscuits for a shilling.

By now, the other lady who served us first time was back, she looked at us puzzled as we walked away our cheeks filled with broken custard creams.

When we got out of the store I asked my brother what had happened, he said easy when it got busy at dinner time I went round with my elbow and broke a few biscuits he said "don't tell me dad or he'll give us his belt."