THIS time of year, bugs are rife and I ended up getting a nasty 24 hour thing that made me miss this year’s Proud of Barnsley awards.

I got off lightly as the other half has had a proper drawn out affair that is laughing in the face of paracetamol.

But I was delighted to hear that 14-year-old Freddie Davies won the Young Superstar category.

His VT made me cry, hit me right in the sweet spot. Freddie shaved off his hair to support his mum, Kelsie, during her cancer treatment.

And then he fundraised to buy hair loss packs for patients in the chemo ward.

God bless him. And dear John Kelly who scooped the much deserved Sir Michael Parkinson Special Recognition award for his services to art, mainly for setting up the lovely Lamproom Theatre, remortgaging his house to take the risk on it.

I know John thought he was turning up there to present me with an award and I would love to have been there for the moment when the penny dropped.

I’m not sure people know how much effort, blood, sweat and toil goes into putting on that evening. I do – and it’s a LOT.

So a shout out to Andrew, the Chron editor, and the team for doing something for the town which is beyond special.

I hope you get the odd thank you to make you feel as appreciated as you should be too.

I made some bread this week. I needed to un-stress and there is nothing like a bit of baking for just chasing away everything but the job in hand.

The smell of it in the oven consumed the whole house for a glorious period. It took me back to my grandparents’ kitchen up at the top of Worsbrough Common, a big red Chow walking about minding his own business.

Oh the memories came flooding. My nana was a fantastic baker but my grandad was easily as good.

He was a miner and he used to joke (I hope) that kneading bread was the only way he could really get all the coal dirt out from under his fingernails.

His bread was that good, you’d have taken the risk he wasn’t codding. My grandad used to take the Sunday morning baking to the Liberal club for my dad and my mum would be waiting for him to come home with the butter knife all ready in her hand to slather the Anchor on them, still warm.

And I’d have one for my supper with Littlewoods’ red Leicester cheese and pickled onions after my bath,

Sing Something Simple playing on the radio, same beloved routine every week. The smell of bread in my kitchen last Sunday brought all that back in a glorious lump.

Happy days, how I’d love to go back to them, just for an hour.

There I was in the very excellent Specsavers last week, trying on new bins, and I was told by a lady helping me choose a pair that I had a ‘petite’ face.

Beaming, that also brought a memory back. It reminded me of a lovely nana years ago outside the school gates who gave me a compliment, before it all went very wrong.

‘Have you lost weight?’ she said. ‘I can see it in your face.’ At this point, she should have stopped. But instead continued. ‘I’m not saying you’ve lost it anywhere else but I can see it in your face, because you’re like me when you put lard on, you start to get a bit jowly.’ It started off so well, too...