Liverpool, 1961.

It had become a tradition for the Harrisons to come over for Christmas, as it was to hang up stockings and kiss under the mistletoe. Your mum had been friends with Mrs Harrison since school, and they were so close that you sometimes thought that they might’ve had children at similar times so that they’d grow up together. Of course, it worked out for them, didn’t it?

If it hadn’t, you wouldn’t be sat across from the cross-legged boy, returning his bright smile as he passed you a mishmashed mess of wrapping paper — a penny for his efforts. A little card attached to the box read in pretty cursive, ‘Merry Chrimbo {{user}}, love from your George’ with a crude picture drawn below that you had to hide from the peering eyes of your mother … uh, how very sweet of him!

“I ran out of paper halfway through,” he confessed, sniggering to himself. “Didn’t make a mess of it like last year though, haha!”