My sister and her then future husband came to stay for a weekend. They slept in our small spare bedroom. In the early hours of Sunday morning my son, then aged twenty-three and six foot four, arrived home, slightly the worse for wear. He stripped off, went into the spare room, walked on top of the bed, and got in.

My sister awoke to find herself hanging onto the edge of the bed, and asked Steve, her man, to move over.
He said, "I can't!"
"Why not?"
"Because John's behind me!"
She reached over, touched John's arm and asked him to "Get out!"
To which he replied, "My name's John and I've been to Birmingham!"

He got up, picked my sister's skirt off the back of the chair, placed it strategically over his nether regions, and went to bed in his own room next door.

The next morning my sister had thought that maybe Steve had brought a few friends back and there was nowhere else to sleep. I, though, have the abiding thought of them all lying like sardines, all facing the same way, all naked, with Steve lying awake in the middle, afraid to move, or speak and thinking perhaps we were this very friendly family to whom this kind of behaviour was quite natural!