Oh, well, but we had all the cheese we could tabulate, and our very marmosets throbbed with excitement at the thought of the TV schedules that we would peruse, ere the day’s light grew dim and the night’s blankets wrapped around us.
Not forgetting the fondue set, though, of course.
Those were young, adventurous days though and we had the bicycle clips to prove it. Sometimes, back in those days, we would sometimes – when we felt brave enough - open two tins of soup, possibly Oxtail and Cream of Tomato. However, we were young then and we had no idea that tinned soup could be such a heady cocktail when wantonly mixed like that.
Eventually, though, our luck ran out. It was on the A38, just south of Derby. There we were surrounded by rampaging natives on the warpath, all escaping from the central reservation to run amok along the dual carriageways of all our hopes, dreams and, yes, our fears too.
It was there we were caught, in the lay-by, with out even a tin opener to come to our aid.
Sometimes, I wake in the night screaming... still, even after all these years.
I haven’t touched a drop of tinned soup since, and Petunia can no longer spend more than a few seconds in the close vicinity of a bread roll.
Such times always take their toll.
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