As we say - and have done for the last fifty years - whenever the other one clears dishes away from the table a bit prematurely. I got hooked on vanilla slice at Cousins Café in Liverpool. I preferred Cousins to Sayers, however quickly they wanted to remove my plate. Before I had been old enough to go to cafes all by myself, my folks took me to Reece’s, where, at an upstairs window seat, I ate hot-buttered toast and watched the trams on Church Street, below.
Later, when between trains at Lime Street station, I partook of the odd cheese burger in the Wimpy bar on the corner of Skelhorne Street. The air was thick with the fug of fried food, but I wasn’t so worried then about the quality of what I was eating, the air that I was breathing or the efficiency of commercial extractor fans. I might even have had a fag to add to the overall ambience.
No comments:
Post a Comment