while the kitchen staff battered it again and again against the harbor wall to tenderize its pale, suckered flesh.
I must ask her what the food is like where she is now. I suspect that Lapsang souchong and langues de chat biscuits are in short supply.
I remember being invited to a classmate’s house after school. Just me. The occasion was “tea.”
This was confusing in itself; I had, not unreasonably, been expecting afternoon tea,
whereas her mother had prepared a sort of early kitchen supper for us.
I can still picture it—orange and beige—three luminous fish fingers, a puddle of baked beans and a pale pile of oven chips.
I had never seen, let alone tried any of these items, and had to ask what they were.
Danielle Mearns told everyone in the class the next day and they all laughed
and called me Beanz Meanz Weird (shortened to Beanzy, which stuck for a while).
No matter, school was a short-lived experience for me. There was an incident with an over-inquisitive teacher
who suggested a trip to the school nurse, after which Mummy decided that said teacher was a barely literate, monolingual dullard
whose only worthwhile qualification was a certificate in first aid.
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