My breakfast this morning, as on every other morning, consisted of toast with blackcurrant jam, accompanied by blackcurrant juice.
Before blackcurrant jam it was honey, for about five years, and before that it was apricot jam, also for five years, and before that it was marmalade, also for - yes, I think it was about five years. I forget what I ate on my toast before that.
What this means is that my life is marked out in jam and honey.
But I digress. I was thinking, as I contemplated this delectable mini-meal, how much I would like to be able to travel back in time to 1942 or 1943, to the POW camp in Italy where my father was, for long periods, surviving on a meal of five prunes a day.
Five prunes a day! My father was never a corpulent man, but when he returned from the War in 1945, roughly nine months and twenty-seven minutes before I was born, he was so thin you could just about see through him. How much I would have enjoyed watching him eat this breakfast of toast with blackcurrant jam, accompanied by blackcurrant juice.
I would also, of course, have enjoyed having a conversation with him, which I never did while he was alive (he was a highly intelligent man, but he never encouraged conversation of any kind: what a pity that is, I have always felt).
Oh for a time machine!
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