I have been adding to my life story recently and as I recollected parts of my childhood this prose/poem came forth – so I thought I would share it with you. It may have particular resonance for anyone born in the North of England – or maybe not!
‘It’s Friday So It Must Be Fish’
Fish, chips, mushy peas – childhood revisited in an instant.
Standing in that tiled shrine where the chrome gleams
and there is steam on the windows,
Friday fish, part of my childhood, even after the Pope let it slide
Patiently queuing with anxious eyes watching the mountain of fat, brown chips get smaller.
Will I get the new ones, hot from the fat?
Burning my tongue and making goldfish noises as they bounce round my mouth, gasping for cooling air.
Me, on tiptoe, rising in prayer, ready for my tea
Chips and scraps please, oh yes, lots for me.
Clusters of discarded batter like giant, knobbly sweets,
The bits that have dropped away and are carelessly scooped up for kids like me, scattered generously over the bag of chips, oozing fat and savoury crunchiness.
If you are really lucky, a tiny scrap of fish
left from when it was too vigorously hauled from the batter and
slung into the warming shelf.
Breathe in the warm, lardy, smell, the giant salt shakers
made for pre-cholesterol largesse,
pickled onions, huge and wrinkly in the jar – a special treat, but not today.
Salt and vinegar? Lots and lots, but onion vinegar please
already a gourmet at nine years old,
or even then asserting the right to be different.
Clutching the greasy parcel carefully to my chest,
I head home to where plates are warming in the oven
and a giant plate of mother’s pride and margarine
stands dead centre on the new blue formica kitchen table.
Two red chairs for my parents, but mine is the yellow stool,
tucked underneath and out of the way –
an excellent metaphor for my childhood.
I carefully pull it out, and sit quietly,
waiting patiently until the tea is made,
the fish and chips portioned out,
and I can happily and greedily tuck in.
