19/10/2026
The Witching Hour ♥️♥️♥️
We had to be home by 5.30.
Not about 5.30. Not five minutes past.
5.30.
My twin sister Angela and I were growing up in the 80s, and like most kids we spent as much time as possible out with our friends.
We’d be round someone’s house listening to records, recording our favourite songs onto cassette tapes, making up dance routines, swimming down the marsh, playing bulldog at the rec or staying late for after-school sports.
There was always something going on, and we wanted to be part of all of it.
But while everyone else could carry on having fun, we had to go home.
And it was terrible.
Because when you’re a child, you just know that whatever happens after you’ve gone home is going to be the best bit.
And we were missing it.
There was no arguing with Dad. We were actually quite frightened of being late. Whatever we were doing, however much fun we were having, we had to leave.
Dad could get very cross.
And after leaving all that fun behind, we’d get home to discover what Dad had made us for dinner.
Mince.
Again.
Shepherd’s pie, spaghetti Bolognese, burgers, or something Dad had invented that didn’t seem to have a name.
There was an awful lot of mince in our childhood.
Of course, Angela and I didn’t appreciate any of it.
We just wanted to be back with our friends.
It’s only now, looking back, that I understand why that half an hour mattered so much.
At 6 o’clock the restaurant opened. Dad had customers coming, food to prepare and a kitchen to get ready for service.
To Angela and me, 5.30 meant the end of our fun.
To Dad, it meant he had just half an hour to feed his daughters before he had a restaurant full of people to feed. ♥️♥️♥️
