Toast. I smelled it as I walked past the industrial estate this morning. Hot, caramelised, buttery toasty toast. In one sniff I was eight years old sitting at the breakfast table with my family, facing the horror of another day at school with a dilemma about what to spread on my toast. Marmalade or treacle? It never got easier. Both had their plus points. The marmalade came in a cool jar and was studded with jewel like gems of peel. The treacle was sweet and golden. That choice was a lot to ask of an eight year old girl depressed about going to school.
Nowadays I've simplified matters. I have jam. Blackberry jelly for preference, for even more preference, homemade blackberry jelly, though Tiptree's comes a close second.
How on earth did I end up here? It's not even a toast day. It's a porridge day. Damn those factory workers on the industrial estate. They have a talent for making you feel hungry when you're not. If you chance to pass by later in the day you'll find yourself hankering after soup, or possibly steak pie, or a healthy portion of sticky curry. First thing in the morning it's toast. And the smell gets everywhere. I can still smell it now.
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