Snapshot: My mystery strop on our seaside holiday

This photo was taken in the late 1950s on Cleethorpes promenade. It is of my mum, older brother Michael and myself, with Dad behind the box camera. We lived in a village north of Bedford and every August Dad would load the car and roof rack with suitcases and fresh vegetables from his garden. Then we would set off up the Great North Road to stay for a week with our great-aunt Maisie and great-uncle Ernie. 

On arrival, Uncle Ernie would fetch fish and chips from the local chippy – they always tasted wonderful. Each morning, after breakfast, we would walk to the bottom of the road, past the gasometer, across the car park filling up with coaches bringing day trippers, through the railway station and along the promenade past the pier, to the same spot on the beach next to the tea kiosk. In the station there was a toy shop and every year I would spend my pocket money on a Corgi or Dinky toy. They are in the loft, still in their original boxes. 

On this day, I was obviously in a strop and would not turn around for the camera but cannot remember why. Sadly, there is no one left to ask. 

Stephen Draper 

Playlist: How we were Busted when my girl was three

Who’s David by Busted

“You’ve always been this way since high school / Flirtatious and quite loud”

When I was three, I loved watching Andy Pandy on television and yearned for a rag doll like Looby Loo. I used to sing Humpty Dumpty again and again, completely out of tune, much to my mother’s dismay. I had teddy bear pictures on my wall and wore frilly dresses.

For today’s three-year-olds, it’s a little different – it certainly was for my daughter, who is now 15. I remember being obsessed with Duran Duran when I was 14, which seems perfectly acceptable, but to have that kind of fixation at three?

I blame her father. He bought me the Busted album for Mother’s Day. I’d never heard of them at the time, so had no idea of the purpose behind his purchase. He insists our daughter chose it, but I suspect it may have been on special offer or come free with a bottle of plonk.

Being a “thoughtful” mother and seeing the boys (they didn’t look older than eight) on the cover, I thought our daughter might like to listen to it. My instincts were right. She did indeed – again and again and again until she knew every song and Who’s David was her favourite.

A “helpful” friend bought her an enormous poster of the band. Her grin could not have been any wider and on pain of a neverending tantrum, it was stuck up proudly on the wall of her bedroom.

The next morning, I was summoned to her room and she took me by the hand over to her poster and informed me that she was Charlie (the one with big, bushy eyebrows who she liked the best), that I was James and Daddy was Matt and together we were Busted.

Thankfully, the phase didn’t last long. I hear the band are now back together and touring. I asked her (she’s now 15) if she would like to go and see them. If looks could kill …

Esther Newton

We love to eat: Dad’s Basilian [sic] potatoes

Ingredients
One tin of new potatoes
One jar of pesto

Combine the ingredients and warm through in a pan.

Watching the Olympic Games in Rio sent my mind back to my childhood when I was convinced that this dish – a favourite of ours – was a South American staple. It was only once I started cooking myself that I realised the atrocious pun attached to my Dad George’s signature (indeed only) dish.

When we were growing up, the first Tuesday in every month was my mum’s Women’s Institute night when my brother and I would be left in my father’s care for the evening. The ups were being allowed to to watch the Goodies on television, the lows were Dad’s “relationship” talks, which have left me with intimacy issues to this day. 

The highlight, though, was Basilian potatoes, which was a “mash-up” (turns out puns are an inheritable trait) of the old (tinned spuds) and the new. Where did Dad get pesto in 1970s Wirral?

You will appreciate the attraction of this dish given that another of Dad’s Tuesday offerings included a box of knock-off unlabelled tins of baby food, which he passed off as a lucky-dip where you didn’t know if you were getting savoury (lamb stew puree) or sweet (sieved apple) until you picked the tin from the pan of hot water and opened it. Pass the potatoes. Please.

When I left home, I was glad of the fool-proof simplicity of this recipe, and its versatility (it’s great before and after a heavy night out).

I’ve tried gentrifying it with homemade pesto, but I still think the way it’s made in the favelas of Rio is best. I’m now thrilled to be passing Dad’s recipe on to the third generation as it travels back down south with my daughter Eloise to university later this month. I’m taking the “relationship” tips to the grave, though.

Roger Mann

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