A journey back to the kitchen

It starts with smell, it often does.

Blue gas fills the oven, sulphurous match struck; a reassuring whoosh of ignition follows. Roast chicken, apple pie and Vimto. Stewed loose leaf tea pouring through a metal strainer. Something else too, vaguely clinical.

Colours join in.

Creams and white, thick like condensed milk. Sea green, jade blue patterned sugar bowls. Indian Tree saucers edged by gold. A shock of pink from the wafer biscuits.

Light comes next. Cold, clean coastal light.

Harshly fresh from the Irish Sea. Mixing with burning street lamp sodium. All reflected by red glazed bricks, mirror like paint, opaque glass.

I can hear them now; long before I see them. Soft Lancashire sounds. Electric Essex chatter. After my long journey, I’ve arrived.

Nana and Grandad’s back kitchen.