Saturday Yesterday

When the world was so much bigger than today and I was definitely much smaller, days seemed so much longer.  Saturday was a day to savour.  People worked on Saturdays in those days at least till noon and then went home for lunch, or dinner in our house.  Before I worked on Saturday, the morning was strictly apportioned, all errands done followed by the omnibus edition of "Dick Barton Special Agent".

  From earliest times I came home on Saturday to the scent of roasting meat. There was always a roast on Saturday, usually a joint of brisket although I can't remember roast potatoes on Saturday. They only appeared on Sunday after Mass.  Boiled potatoes with beef gravy, carrots or cabbage, that was the order of the day.  I would have loved to have been a "Bisto" kid.  The "Ah! Bisto" poster appeared  everywhere  but we were strictly, Cross & Blackwell gravy browning.

There was sago pudding and a dollop of jam to follow, but not for Dad, " Can't be doing with it."   Rice pudding was known by some as "The Old Burma Road", not in our house.  Dad had done four years in Burma and it was not to be treated lightly. Though he did say Rangoon was a beautiful city.

On the down side Saturday could produce some nasty moments especially in winter.  Dad would fly home,  have a quick change of clothes,  wolf down his excellently and carefully prepared meal and dash off to The Match.  This was sure to send my mother into a paroxysm of righteous indignation worthy of any Mrs Joe Gargery on the rampage,  bouncing off ceiling, walls and floor. I beat a hasty retreat till it was all over.  In later years the exit was slightly smoother because I went as well on the football special to The Match.  I could have appeared as a small smudge at the bottom left hand corner of a Lowrie.

Once at The Match,  like other small lads I was handed over hand and head,  down to the fence where we were shielded from the crush of the terrace. My dad never went behind the goal always on the side terrace. This he considered safer and I surmise the language was less offensive.  I do not remember any real argy bargy but then again I could have a selective memory.

On the way out through the gate I was told to breathe in, hold tight and be carried along.  Thus were we popped like corks from a bottle,  fear, security and excitement all in one push. The match itself was a bit of a red blur.

I spent the evening upstairs with a book, Enid Blyton and W E Johns in the early days and Raymond Chandler or Thomas Hardy later on.

JL Jan   28 8:23