A secret vice held close

My downfall has not been gambling, smoking tobacco or pot, and alcohol is only consumed socially, in moderation. So, what is my secret vice?

I am afraid the answer has to be food. I was born with a healthy appetite and was hungry most of my childhood. From birth I was always a “good little eater” according to my parents. If anyone in our family of five left anything on their plate, the cry would go out, “Give it to the Biggun,” (often shortened to “Big”) or sometimes “dustbin guts.”

My appetite was famously discussed and laughed about with relatives and friends alike. Being applauded for something gave me a reputation to upkeep.  My dinner plate, along with that of my two sisters, was always emptied and wiped clean with a piece of white sliced mopping up the last of the gravy. Luckily for me, my sister did not like meat. I was not keen on Brussel sprouts. This mutual swap found us agreeing, at least once a day.

Food rationing was still a feature when I was born in 1947. I am told that family members all donated their sweet ration to me, the first child/grandchild/great grandchild. So, you see, it was really not my fault that I have such a sweet tooth!

‘Big’ - by name - reflected age, not size. All the kids I remember were thin, like me. The reason being our constant energy use. We played at every opportunity. Skipping with half a dozen girls over a washing line, taking turns to rotate the rope from opposite sides of the street, or in the school playground. The road was little used on the council estate where very few owned a car and the milk and bread floats crawled along at walking pace.

The pavement outside our house had a permanently chalked Hopscotch grid, re-etched after rainfall. We could whip a top to spin and jump into the air as it was lashed up and down the road.  If we were not throwing double or triple balls at the brick side of the house, we were ‘tissing up’ (doing handstands) and could walk down the wall into a backbend to walk, crab like. Rollerskates were the only form of transport unless you were lucky enough to have a bike.

We walked to and from school twice a day, and constantly ran errands. My school friends lived two miles away. The walk was often in vain if they were not home. That being the case, one turned around and walked back to call for someone else.

It is fair to say that our constant movement found us strong and without a spare ounce of fat.

The post war drive on child health helped us to thrive. Free milk at school, cod liver oil (ugh) and wonderful school dinners, all provided insulation from the bitter cold winters. Our clothing was barely adequate. Skirts or short trousers for the boys, ankle socks that became soaked when deep snow overflowed into wellies.

We wore socks on our hands that were soaked after a few snowballs had been thrown. I envied the children whose mothers had sewn gloves to elastic and threaded them through coat sleeves so they were never lost. I was also seriously jealous of girls who wore a liberty bodice. These girls were usually an ‘only child’ among my friends.

Each house had one open fire, if you were lucky. Less fortunate neighbours would follow the coal lorries, picking up dropped lumps of coal as the driver hitched the cwt bag onto his back whilst also negotiating kerb and steps into the back yard coal shed of the recipient.

During summer the long hours spent in the sunshine never resulted in sunburn. Back then, sunscreen was unheard of.

These activities now just a happy memory, my vice is denied the continuous energy burn. Fuel in, is mostly left in situ. The excess now gathers around the abdomen and thighs and join me on the sofa to watch the TV. How I envy people who can open a pack of toffees or boiled sweets and eat only one. Am I the only one to eat all five chocolate biscuits in a pack when two or three was ample, in order to destroy the evidence?

Perhaps nowadays my vice is not such a close kept secret?

Carolyn Wheatley