When I was a child, my mother would drag myself and my brother into the one remaining wet fish shop in Maidstone, Kent. As soon as my younger brother heard her ask for herrings, he would start screaming and crying. He would do a little war dance on the spot. If the idea was to embarrass our mother into buying something else, it never worked, not once.
I can't remember eating the herrings but I must have done. I was a big fan of rollmops (pickled herrings) and Ma and I would easily scoff a jar in the car on the way home from Sainsbury's. Jamie, Ma's cocker spaniel was a fan too, and once stole mine from my dinner plate by jumping up onto a dining chair while we were gathering knives and forks in the kitchen.
No comments:
Post a Comment