Proustian Preston

Memory is a strange beasty. The same memory can make you sad one day and happy the next day. Logic does not apply in the land of reminices. And quite right too.

I’ve had a day of memories as i travelled Oop North to myUncle’s funeral. It was a testament to the man that, despite being incapacitated by a stroke almost 10 years ago and living in semi recluse at a (very loving) nursing home, his funeral was packed with mourners. Four (possibly five, I lose count) generations mixed and remembered over sausage rolls and strong tea. The table decorations were in Papal yellow and white. The nampkins folded by the nuns in a shape designed to suggest the Resurrection. Two upturned pointy fingers of tissue paper in each teacup, in case you were wondering. Now THAT’S notsomething you’d often see on Martha Stewart’s table, mores the pity.


Preston, for that was my destination, is my childhood home although we left there for an overseas spell in Germany when i was just 14. Even now, going back is hugly evocative and i find myself retracing my steps to old haunts. And the picture above is one of them, if not my favourite

really, if you’re ever in Preston go along from the railway station and find the gem that is Brucciani’s cafe. My mother used to go in the 1940’s after shool, she used to take me when I was little and I take my boys. Gorgeous coffee, ice cream floats and sticky iced buns. Proust had his madelaines. I have Bruce’s vanilla slices. Nom nom nom. like to think my Uncle would have approved. Mum definitely would. It’s her birthday on Halloween so here’s a bun for old times sake.



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