Fish and Chips

What is it about fish and chips, in the car, in a lay-by? It's a memory from childhood, six of us in a Morris Cowley coming back from holiday in North Wales. Don't know where the chippie was – don't even remember whether the newspaper contained fish to go with the chips. Just a moment of family togetherness two thirds of the way home. A pattern we often repeated, years later, with our own kids.

Coming back up to the Erin Mae on Saturday we thought we'd stop for food at the Harvester where the A446 splits from the A38. Should have known better.  They could seat us right away, but the food would be 40 minutes to an hour. Optimisitic, we thought. So we pushed on, thinking of a pub in Rugeley where we'd had some nice grub once. Then I said "What about fish and chips, if we can find any?" My best beloved's eyes sparkled like a Christmas tree and, yes, she thought she'd seen a chippie just by the traffic lights in Lichfield. Ten minutes later, armed with cod and chips and a couple of cans of diet Pepsi, we pulled over into a lay-by and tucked in. It felt like a midnight bean-feast. Who cares that it wouldn't quite have made Egon Ronay?