Sannidges for George

First, a warning - probably little or no fibre content today. Flagging emotional, personal content, in fact. Don't drum me out of the Brownies.

The phrase "sannidges for George" crash-landed fully formed in my mind this morning whilst wandering in an aimless fashion (ie trying to remember what I was supposed to be buying)around town this morning. I don't actually remember myself, age somewhere between two and seven, saying it, but apparently I did, every time George came in to the bar of the pub run by my parents in those days so very long ago. Seemingly, he always had sandwiches, and I used to request them of my father.

It was always my father that I spent time with in the bar. In this age of curiously mixed feelings about alcohol, I am sure that there are many who will throw up their hands in total disgust at the thought of an innocent child exposed to such horrors. But what I do remember so very vividly is the warm pleasure of spending time with my father, and as he was a busy man, this had to be early mornings and early evenings when he did work that allowed him to keep an eye on me at the same time. In the evenings, I would be behind the long wooden bar with him, and I would often be allowed to hang on for dear life to one of the big wood and brass club-shaped pump handles and Pull My Own Beer. I can't be sure of the size of the glass, but if it was a shot glass, I would not be surprised. I also used to pick runners in the horse races for his customers (with great success) and, of course, order sandwiches for favourite ones.

But what I do genuinely remember with great clarity is the mornings. These memories are particularly strong because they are linked to the smells associted with our activities. Together, we would open the cellar door, and start down the dark stairs. To one side was the coke house, and this had a warm, black, sooty smell. Although it was dark, I was never frightened because I was with my daddy. Then we turned to the right and went in to the beer cellar. This was completely different, brightly lit, walls painted white, and cool, with a strong but mellow smell of ale. He would do what he had to do - all I recall is him tapping gently on a little wooden peg in the top of the barrel.

All my other memories of our time at the pub are of me on my own, or playing in the big kitchen on my own with other people around but not joining in with my game. Well, I do have a couple of things, one being knocked over by our dog and hitting my head on our old gas cooker, necessitating a frightening rushed trip to the hospital: And one of my mother cooking and something going wrong, and me aged less-than-seven suggesting a remedy.

I do think about these things from time to time, but why so much all of a sudden? Because yesterday, I was watching some soap opera whilst doing some chores (ahem) and the father of a character died and all of a sudden I was overwhelmed with sadness. And I wanted to record that even when one's father dies aged 90 and it is not entirely unexpected, it is indeed the next natural stage in his and my existence, and even though more than two years have gone by, that there is still grief, that last little bit of "getting over it" has yet to take place and may never do so - I don't know yet.