Snapshot: The younger me, in a different era

Up until, say, the age of 10, if we were going anywhere special, my father would part my hair for me, in a small ritual that gave me pleasure. He would take the comb, wetted with water by my mother, who would flick it first to dry it a little, the drops making a tiny spatter on the terracotta tiles of the kitchen floor. He would stand above me, so much bigger than I was then, and comb my hair, scraping it across the scalp to either side of my head, so that I could feel the points of the comb, but not hard enough to hurt. The sensation, and his brief concentration on me, always gave me an intense physical pleasure.

My favourite part was a ritual within the ritual. "Is my parting straight?" I would ask. "It's as crooked as a dog's hind leg," my father would say, scraping a straighter line – always the mathematician – across the left side of my scalp from back to front. I would get a tiny Mexican wave of goose pimples. Then my father would say, "Bah!" in dismissal of further effort, put the comb down and sometimes walk away, the steel segs on his heels clicking on the tiled floor.

My mother's notation on the back of this snapshot, taken half a century ago, tells me the scene is at Sleights, on the Yorkshire coast. We would be on an outing from Whitby, perennial favourite for our summer holiday.

I wear a child's parody of a man's suit, short trousers reaching almost to the bony cups of my knees, the tweedy jacket with its lumpy leather buttons like miniature conkers. Like one of the Bash Street Kids, my socks rumple down towards my sandals, while at the other end, my outstretched left arm rests along the top bar of the gate, as I wear NHS Milky Bar Kid glasses and a serious expression. My hair is pasted flat as polish, and I remember now the pleasure of the familiar ritual with my father.

I look pleasingly ridiculous, a child clothed and coiffed from a different era, but the pleasure of that ritual haunts me like a tiny, friendly ghost, and I wish I had the magic to conjure it into being.

Michael A Young

Playlist: My naughty, witty bond with Dad

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park by Tom Lehrer

"All the world seems in tune / On a spring afternoon / When we're poisoning pigeons in the park"

Dad was one of those 1970s fathers who embraced suburban life and keeping up appearances far more than he embraced active parenthood, a concept that apparently baffled him. At weekends he always chose to mow the immaculate front lawn, nuke the flower beds with new chemical gardening products, wash the car or redecorate the house, refusing to go to the park with Mum, my brother and sister and me. As we three kids grew up, in the era of punk, new wave and ska, he poured scorn on our music choices, which amplified the feeling of him versus us.

But there was one slim thread that connected me to him – my interest in his record collection. He had a large cabinet full of LPs by many of the jazz greats, plus lots of comedy records – the Goons, Tommy Cooper and, my favourite, Tom Lehrer. He would play them as he decorated or after lunch on a Sunday, singing along or laughing out loud, putting him in a far better mood than usual. Craving some positive attention, I made the most of those times to be around him.

Tom Lehrer's songs dazzled me with his wit and inventiveness, plus his references to things I'd never heard of, such as Harvard and strychnine. My favourite song was Poisoning Pigeons in the Park, the naughtiness of it giving it a huge extra frisson. Dad and I would sing along together with gusto.

I only found out a few years ago, when I won tickets to see the Specials at the 100 Club on Oxford Street, in central London, how big a music fan Dad had been in his youth – it turned out that he had frequently gone to jazz nights at the same venue. (Ironically, years later, of course, it was the 100 Club that first welcomed the Sex Pistols and the other punk bands that Dad so detested.)

At the Specials gig, I looked at all the framed black and white photos of bands, singers and musicians on the walls and thought about Dad being there as a happier, younger man in the 50s. It was a second positive musical connection to add to our Tom Lehrer bond.

Helen Self

We love to eat: Mum's amazing 'trifle'

Ingredients

1 egg
2oz (55g) sugar
2oz (55g) margarine
2oz (55g) self-raising flour
2oz (55g) cocoa powder
Orange juice
Raspberries, preferably frozen and then defrosted so they are mushy
Instant custard

Mix the egg, margarine, flour and cocoa in a microwavable Pyrex dish. Microwave for a couple of minutes to cook the sponge and then use a fork to break up and pour orange juice over to moisten so the cake layer is squidgy. Leave to cool. Add a layer of mushed raspberries and cover in custard. Refrigerate till custard is set and dig in, enjoying the slurping noise when the first portion comes out of the dish.

Growing up in the early 80s, my sister and I had no idea that the dish we regularly enjoyed was not really trifle but Mum's loose interpretation of the dessert. The origin of her recipe is not clear but likely to be a combination of her love of shortcuts and ingredient substitution coupled with a fear of alcohol and my hatred of cream. It also celebrates the excitement of the early days of the microwave when the large brown box in the corner of the kitchen was used to cook everything in record time, with varying results.

Thanks to Dad's two allotments and incredibly green fingers, we had a constant glut of fresh organic (though they weren't called organic then) fruit and vegetables, which resulted in Mum spending balmy summer afternoons and evenings processing and freezing massive quantities for the winter months. Any dish that made instant use of these abundant frozen offerings was a bonus and the odd caterpillar hiding in the raspberry layer was not unheard of!

Mum's "trifle" was the real taste of home when I was back from university and a cheeky breakfast treat whenever there were leftovers. It is still my favourite dessert, served in the same scratched Pyrex dish and it knocks the socks off its sherry-soaked namesake.

Clare Armstrong

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