Everyone stands well clear of the greasy pole, which is set up with a leg of mutton at the top as the prize. First one to reach the top can keep it. Everybody tries and slithers down, their clothes are terribly stained, until Richard Field from South Street comes up and pulls a set of metal hoops out of his pocket. Everyone who is standing under the pole looking up gets flour in their faces, and Mr. Field is crestfallen - but afterwards they found a real leg of mutton for him. Then come the races - one for men over 50 and women over 40, a special handicap race for married men, even one for women with perambulators.
Mother enters that one, and comes second.
Then there's the stone-picking race, and the slow bicycle race for men, which Father thought he would win, but he kept falling off. I finish the children's tea at Woodcote Grove in time for the torchlight procession. We all gather in Waterloo Road at half past eight, and form up behind the band on our way to the Downs. It seems as if the whole town is stretched out in a line. When we get to the top I can hardly believe my eyes, the bonfire is so huge.