Three tablecloths. Two, 60 years old, one a youngster at 54. To anyone else they would mean nothing – things to be chucked in the nearest recycling bin without a second thought.
But to me, they are suffused with the sweetest memories. The soft, yellow cloth with its black and red stitching was the cover thrown over a long, teak table on which my nana would place our Sunday tea spread. Tinned salmon, sliced pickled cucumber and a bowl of crisp salad. Her swollen legs and arthritic fingers no doubt aching and sore, but the meal always served with a smile. My grandad’s deep chuckle as he tucked in to mashed strawberries with milk and sugar, enjoyed with triangles of buttered bread. Then the glorious smell of pipe tobacco as he…
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The Simple Things (Digital) - 1 Issue, October 2018