There is nothing more beautiful then the sound of a knife dragging warm butter across hot toast. This, and the smells whenever my mother was baking fudge. Most of my childhood memories revolve around food. Breakfast was always a great time of the day for me. There would be toast – white bread, of course – with a small dish in the centre of the table where my Mum had put a large dollop of warmed butter. We always had a proper butter knife, the one with the bone handle. And porridge in winter, made with real milk, on the stove. This was thick and almost glue-like and I wasn’t too keen on that. But I ate as much as I could stomach. Of course, these were the days when processed food hadn’t been thought of, and Weetbix was a luxury. Dad sat at the end of the table – the head of the household, smoking his third roll-your-own for the day. I’d heard him wake up earlier, coughing his guts out in the bathroom while he shaved. My two brothers and my sister were spread along the sides of the table. We only had four chairs, so some of us sat on a squab that Dad had built along the side of the table. Very rarely did Mum sit down with us. She spent the morning cooking toast and serving up porridge for us hungry children.
My father worked for a government department. When I was really young I thought he must be a secret agent because he was always working odd hours. I found out later he actually had three jobs. During the day he worked for the Health department, in the accounts department. He did that job for quite a number of years. But I don’t recall ever visiting Dad at work. Maybe he really was a spy? More>>
