My Childhood Room

A Piece of Cake

Our living room was the centre of all the actives we shared as a family. This room came into it's own on Sunday's. It was the only day of the week that guaranteed we would all be home together. My parents would not be up before ten am.

My father would have the same routine, just delayed. The same journey down the stairs, his familiar sounds accompanying him to the downstairs toilet. The rustle of the cigarette pack, the cluck of his lighter and of course that acrid foul smelling stench of the cigarette smoke as it drifted down the hall way pasted the bathroom and right up my noise. I longed for clean air. For some reason the smells on a Sunday seemed enhanced .My Mother would follow a few moments behind.

Sunday was the only day of the week that she cooked breakfast. Bacon sandwiches ! Again the aroma would fill the house from floor to ceiling, as all the children would gather in the misted up kitchen almost trance like called by the smell of bacon frying in my mothers rather large frying pan. My father now full coughed out and awake, would take his usual chair next to the table, sun light flooding the room through the large seventies style windows that had been exposed by the heavy curtains being pulled back by the cord rail that rolled it's way along the top of the upper window. Bacon sandwiches apart, I hated Sunday mornings. I hated having to wait, I hated the smells that downed out the air, but most of all I hated my fathers radio. Sunday mornings brought dull classical music in the mornings, 'Melodies for You', ( nothing tuneful about that radio show !) it was down right depressing. And 'Sing something Simple' or as I called it 'Sing something Stupid' in the evening. I could never work out whether or not my father liked listening to such radio programmes, or if his sadistic mind would get some sort of twisted pleasure out of putting us through it with him !

Sundays revolved around food. The drop leaf table that stayed firmly stuck to the wall Monday through Saturday, my fathers cigarette table that his hard wooden back chair would rest next too would swing into action. My father had to move his belongings to the small coffee table, and it would take two of us to lift and re position the rather heavy wood turned legs, lift the flaps and kick out the supporting legs and slot then firmly into place. Making sure we had turned the table round 90 degrees. From a two foot by five foot the table extended into a large round table big enough to fit all six of us round. We each had our own designated place that never ever changed. At two pm we would all sit down together for Sunday roast dinner. Roast meat, vegetables, Yorkshire puddings, gravy. Our family was like every other family I knew at the time. An unwritten Sunday rule. The table manners were ritual like. Once seated you would not speak, unless spoken to. You would eat everything on your plate. Still no moving. Your knife and fork had to be placed on your plate at a slight 45 degree angle. No talking, once everyone had finished, you may ask to get down from the table. But you must say 'thank you for your food before attempting to leave the table. The regimented nature of Sunday lunch time was something to behold. A throw back to such times where food was not plentiful during the Victorian period of English history. All I can remember was trying so hard not to step out of line, but trying to provoke my brothers and sister to shout out in pain as I kicked them as hard as I could in the skins under the table. This would make the rather dull meal time much more fun. I had a few tricks up my selves. Sneezing power. A little pink plastic puffer bottle of this magic substance. Small enough to fit in my pocket and go unseen under the table. A few 'puffs into the air at the right time and the sound of knife's and fork's chickling on dinner plates would be broken with different sized sneezes. Little restrained ones from my Mother and sister, to booming air splitting ones from my father. I would often get told off not for administering the douse of sneeze inducing powder, but for trying so hard not to laugh that my face tight lipped and growing redder by the second would just explode into uncontrollable laughter. My father would not be amused, his very stern face and his rocket of a voice would soon change my joy into tears. Still these things had to be done, I could not bare silence. Then came the dreaded washing up ! The kitchen always looked like it had been bombed. All the dirty plates and saucepans piled up against the sink. It took what seemed like hours to wade through the gigantic pile. No time to rest, Sunday night time tea would appear at 6 30. Bread butter, sliced meats, pickles, salad, ( horrible spring onions ) and cake ! Thank goodness for cake. Now as you can imagine a Victoria Sponge did not go far between the six of us. If you think of portioning a cake it cuts into six. Down the middle each half cut into three pieces. The only problem was my father did not eat cake. I never asked him why this was, but it left us children with a dilemma. If I eat my piece fast enough would I be able to lay claim to the spare slice ? Or should I forget about the left over piece and savour every single mouth full slowly enough to enjoy the freshly baked cream filled, jam laden, icing sugar sprinkled sponge ! After consideration I eat my piece as fast as I could, hardly coming up for air in between mouthful's. Get in fast before it was too late ! Icing sugar and strawberry jam spread across my face from ear to ear ! This did not work. My Mother who would never say much during meal times, normally left everything up to my father. But she had a plan. From the kitchen she fetched a clean plate and knife. She placed the spare piece of cake on the plate, and asked, " who would like this last slice ?" Simultaneous hands shot into the air, chests stuck out as if reaching for the celling. " Alright then you can share it between you" " I want one of you to cut and the other two to choose" This had never happened before, we never got to cut the cake ! What is she up to I thought ? Adrian took the knife and with the precision of a lazier guided robot cut the cake into three exact pieces ! I could almost see through my extra slice ! How he managed this amazing feat of engineering with a cake knife I still do not know to this day. We all got the same, and no arguments ! Genius !