Offal

‘Will Scotty get back in time? Or is it too late for. . . Dick Barton - Special Agent? Tune in tomorrow night!’ said the announcer.

‘What’s for supper?’ I said. Although I knew the answer.

It was always faggots and peas after Dick Barton on Thursdays. When the van came round I would stand in the rain while the fat man with a thin moustache and stained white coat filled my white pudding basin with faggots and peas, overflowing with thick gravy which I licked on the way down the garden path. And swallowed a hot finger-full of sweet mushy peas before I closed the door.