On Sundays, we had bacon - The salty, smoky meat, The crisp fat, The drippings after were used to toast thick, white bread. * Ma would walk us down to the butchers, but first -
Seven o'clock, no time to lie in, Church choir sining to heaven. Eight thirty, heads full of latin we never understood, Home for a rough scrub in cold water by nine, And then, straight out again - Ma would ask for five rashers.
Two for dad, one each for the rest of us. Home once more, The pan would sizzle, Grease pop, The smell drawing us all to the table. Four eggs on the boil,
Salt, pepper, butter in the butter dish, The best china. A clattering of knives and forks, And mugs of milky tea. You and I would wash the dishes, And then, the day was ours.