Dinnertime, 1996

St. Christopher’s Primary School, Romiley.

It is dinnertime. We’re called into the main hall, a vast space of grey resin floors that squeak as you shuffle your feet. An odd mural is hanging on the back wall. I recall a bright green field and a road. It is too long ago now.

I am four years old, and everything is new. I’m standing in line in the biggest room I’ve ever seen. The east and west walls are both made up entirely of windows, flooding the room with light. From the ceilings hang milk-white glass pendants, suspended on spindly silver rails like opaque flying saucers. Even at only a few years old — they seem unsafe.

The room has a smell about it at Dinnertime. It always will. It’s the aromatic medley of baked instant mash, processed ham and sweet, bright yellow custard.

I get to the front of the queue, and am offered a blue plastic tray with compartments. I’m given some options and end up picking a cheese whirl — the loveless marriage of plasticy cheddar and mashed potato baked into a shape approximating a bun. I remember this first meal for its unremarkableness, and the odd, yet somehow alluring play-dough smell.

 I also remember the many that followed — turkey twizzlers (R.I.P), ham and cheese breaded triangle thingies, potato smilies, square pizza and turkey drumsticks.

Dessert was always the best part — usually a slice of warm sponge bleeding raspberry jam, a small pot of watery jelly, or two to three hobnobs covered in custard from a large battered zinc jug. There were pots of cold custard sprinkled with hundreds and thousands. I never chose it — don’t they know custard is meant to be hot?!

I set my tray down on a faux wood laminate folding table along with a faded blue beaker of blackcurrant squash. Despite what Mr Oliver might think, there’s some excitement in the little boy that once was me. A hot meal in the middle of the day? My first day away from my parents, no less. This is new. Adventure!

If nothing else, it is a period of respite from the tyranny of Mrs. Jackson.