It's a new thing in the Sunday fluff-and-horror supplements. Always feel disgusted after reading a Sunday paper but still do it once or twice a month.
It had a hard wooden bench and the back door had a seven-foot drop outside it, probably, and I rode my trike off it once and that's my first memory. I peeled potatoes for the first time ever and sliced into my thumb but instead of going to hospital I had a Barney Rubble yoghurt.
two or three:
Peanut butter on toast with extra salt, why not, let's go nuts. Dry spaghetti from a jar on top of the fridge-freezer.
six or seven:
One hand in my pocket and cooking pancakes with the other, spectators deemed it a bit casual. Can't remember if they were any good.
four or five years later:
It had two ovens and twelve cupboards and one morning it was entirely covered in flour.
The ceiling fell in and it was appropriate. A bit of sweeping and carry on. Once and once only a poker night. A lot of drunken afternoons with whatever's left for lunch.
Freezing and narrow with the toilet at one end and a fridge full of guidelines. Separate vegetarian cutlery, fags on the back step, cheese on toast.
In work fifteen minutes early because the bastard never behaved. Very long matches and ninety nine for breakfast and on a Sunday they all turn up at eight fifty five expecting two sausages each.
Impossible to sleep while there's an oven in the same room. I was only visiting.
Sky sports eat heartily. We should've given them a trough. Washing up and a skin condition.
Other one-page features to look out for in the coming months (not the ones that've just passed) include: My Marmite Face, Tragedies That Didn't Bother Me, What I Think About The Moon, The Longest I Have Gone Without Washing, and My Favourite Grey Things.