Proust could have done it.\u00a0 He would have remembered every taste of boiled swedes, or cheap oatmeal he had from the days before he even would accept a cup of tea.\u00a0 All the awful healthy flavours which were not in the race with lemonade and marshmallows.<\/p>\n
Sometimes when the leaden soldiers were not battling well my brother and I would have a go at peanut brittle, Bulgarian Rock or even marshmallows.\u00a0 Most of our efforts were not worth keeping, although peanut brittle & Bulgarian Rock were hard to dispose of.\u00a0 They had an indestructibility that even our scones lacked.<\/p>\n
Mother was probably collecting the rents or playing bridge.\u00a0 She accepted our beginnings of haute-cuisine with a great deal of grace \u2013 so long as we consumed or gave away the delights and washed up after the mess.<\/p>\n
We didn\u2019t seem to be pushed around too much to household chores \u2013 maybe we kept to a minimal area \u2013 easy to clean.<\/p>\n
Yet it was laid down that on Sunday morning, mother was taken tea and toast to her bed three floors up where she read the papers in luxurious ease.\u00a0 Occasionally she would borrow a \u201cTruth\u201d which would be hidden under a cushion later.<\/p>\n
On the way back from Union Street the warmth of the meal tucked under my armpit released urges which the smell of chips rendered irresistible. I never knew how many chips I pilfered on the way home from the newspaper bundle.\u00a0 Doubtless the greasy paper contained the latest news of the attack on Passchendaele or Gallipoli for all I bloody well knew – or cared.<\/p>\n