We married young - me 21, she 18, but we had dated for 4-5 years. I possibly looked older as I had been totally bald from an early age, and certainly she being small and pretty could have been mistaken for being slightly younger.

Somehow we got out of that caravan and bought a very rough terraced house in Luton, England. I was for ever covered in plaster and sawdust and she too had her own pair of stained overalls.

The unexpected knock on the door was a local lad of fifteen years who had parked his pushbike alongside our wall.

"Yes what is it," I quickly enquired as my plaster was going off.

"Excuse me mister, but I asked my dad what to do and he said that I should ask you if you minded me asking your daughter out on a date?"

"Oh I see. How old do you think she is?"

"Hmmm, about fifteen I think."

"And how old do you think I am then?"

Looked me up and down.

"About fifty five I guess."

(Hopefully I still look 'about fifty five').