Every morning at six-thirty my dad would get me up. He would change my nappy and dress me and then take me through to the kitchen and put me in the high chair. He would then turn his mind to making porridge. He was good at all of this. He made the porridge with milk and sprinkled sugar on it. When it was cool enough he gave me a big bowl of it and left me to it.
How do I know this? Because my mother told me.
The object of the exercise was to transfer the porridge from the bowl to the stomach via the mouth. But for me, that was too boring. It would appear that my idea of fun was to eat half the porridge and distribute the other half anywhere that I could reach. The favourite place for this seemed to be in my long curly blond hair.
By the time my mum appeared I was usually sitting there with a bowl on my head and a drying coating of oats over my face, surrounded with a smeared gooey mess.
I enjoyed having breakfast with my father. Few meals since have ever been so enjoyable.
I wonder if he were to come back and we did it all over again if it would be half as much fun?