Imagine tapping a large Easter egg, cracking it into a jigsaw of different sized pieces, the foil wrapper glistening and the comforting chocolate contents spilling out.  Think of a different scenario, a hammer hitting a skull repeatedly, the bones cracking and the cranial spinal fluid oozing down the nostrils, the skin wrapper swollen beyond belief, blue and bruised.  This is what happened to my father the week before Easter

More people in the UK now gamble than ever before, encouraged by the internet and the building of new casinos - and arguably fuelled by the increase in the availability of easy credit. But whilst most simply enjoy the occasional flutter, others develop an addiction as deadly as alcohol and drugs, devastating both individual and family life. Mature Times' reader Brian Halter has written the following, deeply honest piece.

Patzi Gooch's story is a bit like a modern day fairy tale - a woman who, aged 50, was suddenly transformed from wife, mother and grandmother into a popular public singer.

At aged seven, I was told that I would be going away on "holiday" without my Mum, but with all the school children one day in September 1939. I was already packed for my "holiday": PJs, a change of undies, soap and flannel, toothbrush, slippers and one toy - my teddy, dressed in a siren-suit - all in a brown paper carrier bag.

By Roy Clark

I suppose there isn’t really an ideal place to have a heart attack. A convenient place? Well yes, in a hospital I suppose. But, wherever it happens, it can be quite traumatic for relatives, especially one’s wife. For the patient? Well, particularly in my case, I felt oddly detached and I simply laid back and hoped for the best.

My heart attack happened at a most inconvenient time and in a most inconvenient place. I was in a tent halfway up a hillside in a fairly remote region of the Pyrenees in the south of France. It was around 4am in the morning.

In response to Marika Cseh’s November article on leaving Hungary during the 1956 uprising brought back memories of receiving them in their thousands as they poured into Britain. I well remember the frantic efforts to provide them with accommodation high on the Cotswolds above Stroud, in the empty landmark known as Rodborough “Fort”.

We had been expecting the call; my stomach tightened. “This is Dr Scott, I’ve finished with Tom. You may come as soon as you like.” His tone was ominous, this was it. My wife and I went tight-lipped to the car. Mature Times reader John Staddon shares his fondest memories of his dog.