WHAT ecstasy then misery the letter from Margarita Greeve reminds me of with her tales of the Westover Ice Rink.

Just before the war Geoff Goult, vicar’s son from St Paul’s church, almost adopted us four kids, whose Mum was struggling to bring us up on her own after separation from Dad – with no ulterior motive other than friendly Christian principals took us for a treat to the ice rink to celebrate and see the New Year in.

I was 13 and never knew such joy, happiness and pleasure, having the time of my life. If this is what grown up’s do, can’t wait.

The clock struck 12, we all sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’, streamers and balloons were everywhere – then shock and despair as we had to go home.

“Why”, Geoff says, “it’s Sunday. Who says we are not allowed to enjoy ourselves on Sunday. How could they. Must be someone higher than Geoff”.

In anguish my little world ended there and then. What faith I had went down the plughole.

Come summer, church took us to camp in the New Forest withsunshine, games and fun. Faith miraculously returned.

Come the war, our three eldest were called up and brother killed. I heard of death and destruction and holocaust. Faith took a dive again.

Oh the fickleness faith of youth.

KEN ADAMS, Glen Road, Parkstone, Poole