I WAS very amused by John MacAllister’s letter (ViewPoints, December 22).

Perhaps I go back further than John’s memories of the deep mid-winter of 1963.

I can remember 1947, when the snow stayed under the walls and hedges until after Easter across the Cotswolds.

I walked across Gloucestershire from Farmington to Sherborne using the walls as my guide, just to see my mum!

I remember The Prune Song sung by Frank Crumit on an old 78 record:- No matter how young a prune may be He’s always full of wrinkles A baby prune looks like his dad But he ain’t wrinkled half as bad No matter how young a prune may be He’s got a heart of stone, etc.

Prunes in my childhood (wartime) were often cut up into small pieces to look like currants, in cakes and puddings.

John is right about prunes and custard, makes a lovely pudding. I still eat them.

MARY STIFF, Corunna Crescent, Cowley Oxford