SPOW
Downstairs , mum was trying to convince six – year – old Demi porridge was good for her. 'It tastes of frogs' skin,' Demi moaned.
'Like it or lump it,' mum replied. She glanced at me but I looked away. We'd had a corker of a row last night and I wasn't ready for eye contact yet. 'Cutting it fine again, Sonny,' she said casually as I slipped into my well – polished footwear. I chose not to reply, and shrugged my way round the table towards the back door. I had to breath in because the table's massive and takes up all the floor space. As I struggled past, I snagged my tights again on one of its bulbous legs. 'Great! My last decent pair! I don't know why you didn't auction this thing off with all the other stuff!' I snapped.
'You know full well why not, Sonny,' mum replied calmly.
'It's a special table, isn't it, mum? That's why you mustn't spill Ribena on it or draw smiley faces using felt pens,' Demi informed us gravely.
Yeah, yeah; the table was special, the table was unique. It had been handed down through three generations on my mother's side. It was an heirloom, a reminder of better days, and I loved it, too, when I was in a good mood and had tights to spare.
'Got your dinner money?' Mum asked.
'Yes,' I sighed, already halfway through the back door.
'We'll talk tonight,' she said.
'Can't wait,' I replied with just the right amount of sarcasm before disappearing.
'Love you,' she called after me.
I didn't respond. It was probably the briefest conversation I'd ever had with her before school.
Like I said, my mornings weren't the same any more.