Snapshot: Paddy paws, our faithful rescue dog

This is a photograph of our son, Ian, aged 18, with our dog Paddy. Ian was allergic to cats as a little boy so, when he was seven, we got a rescue dog. Ian called her Paddy Paws, which was the name of a puppy in a comic.

Paddy turned out to be devoted to my husband. When he came home from work, it was his custom to lie on the floor to relax. Paddy would put her paws on his chest and look earnestly into his eyes, willing him to take her for a walk. I swore she was a reincarnated girlfriend.

My purchases from the Bull Ring market on Saturday mornings included the chews that Paddy loved. As soon as the car arrived, she would run out, barking until I rummaged through the fruit and veg and got a chew for her.

She was a faithful little dog (a cross between an Alsatian and some sort of terrier). She used to creep upstairs when voices were raised. My husband would shout, "Where are you going?" and she would freeze in her tracks on the stairs. When we returned from work, she would drag herself from under our bed where she could flatten her body, hamster-like, and race down, grinning at us. Sometimes when she came back from a walk, she would be in disgrace after rolling in something a fox had left behind, and would be taken, shivering to the bath. She would leap into any water she could find when she was out for a walk, but a bath? No fear.

As a puppy, Paddy chewed a pair of my shoes and handbag (which I had saved hard for) and a new pair of Ian's sandals, but we still loved her. She lived for 13 years and we still miss her.

Pam Hayes

Playlist: My first taste of grownups' secrets

Do the Locomotion by Little Eva

"Do it nice and easy, now, don't lose control / A little bit of rhythm and a lotta soul / Come on, come on, do the locomotion with me"

One of my earliest memories is dancing around the sitting room of our semi in Wolverhampton to Little Eva. It was 1962 and I would have been three. The midwife was there, presumably on account of my newborn baby sister. My mother was kneeling to iron a pile of clothes on the floor. They were both laughing and saying how good I was at doing the twist. I can still remember the happy feeling in my tummy.

Then the midwife left. The wireless was off. I stood in a corner of the room and watched my mother stooped over her ironing, smile gone. She didn't seem to see me. The iron went thump-thumpety-thump. She was talking – to herself or to someone who wasn't there – and her voice was angry and sad.

Later, I remember being buttoned into my coat. My mother pushed the pram and I walked alongside. I knew something was wrong but didn't know what. We came to the playing field. Someone in football shorts ran towards us and picked me up and whirled me around. Daddy. He bent to look into the pram at my sister. I watched and waited. But my mother was smiling and my father was smiling too, and telling her about his football match. Everything looked fine. And I knew it wasn't.

That was my first lesson in how grownups keep secrets from each other, doing their own kind of locomotion through the ups and downs of life.

Julia Paillier

We love to eat: Nanna's Friday sausage tea

Ingredients for three:

Potatoes
Oil for frying
Nine fresh butcher's sausages
Three eggs
HP Sauce

Peel the potatoes and chip them with a crinkle cutter. Fry the sausages, turning regularly. Place the chips in a fryer and cook until golden. When the sausages are done, remove to a hot plate and fry the eggs in the same fat. Best served with HP Sauce in front of the TV.

As far back as I can remember, I went to Nanna and Grandad's for Friday night tea. After school, I'd walk to their bungalow and get settled in prime position – on the floor in front of the telly. The little table with collapsible legs would be brought out from behind the settee and assembled on the carpet.

No one seems to know where this tradition came from. My brother, who was two years younger, never came along. It was a treat just for me. And it really was a treat. Meals at home were strictly at the table, so to be relaxing on the floor at the tray/table and watching Grange Hill was very special indeed.

Plus, I got to have Johnson's sausages – a local legend. Mr Johnson was the butcher in the North Yorkshire town where we lived, and his family made sausages to their secret recipe for generations. The sausages were my absolute favourite childhood meal.

I'd always have the same: three sausages, bought that morning, topped with a fried egg and chips. Nanna and Grandad ate in the kitchen, leaving me alone to add the final touch to the dish – a big dollop of HP Sauce.

After tea (usually at 5pm), the little table would be cleared and we would sit by the fire with a cuppa. Their favourite topic was when they were courting in the 30s, Nanna's eyes lighting up as she talked about the dances.

Grandad – Harold – inevitably led the conversation round to the war, when all he had to keep his spirits up when he served in Italy and North Africa was a photo of Nanna. He kept the picture of Maudie in his pocket throughout the war – and still had it all those years later.

Johnson's is long gone, but they did pass on their secret sausage recipe when they sold the business a few years ago. And three decades later, they still taste as good as ever.

Linda Harrison

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