The local bakery.

My relationship with my father was always rocky but I remember when there was a period when things went well for a while. My fondest memory of that time was of him rising early on Saturday mornings. I was still at school so I would stay in bed until he returned. He would go to the butchery and the bakery.

Then he would return home with a huge brown paper bag stacked to the brim with fresh bread.

The most awesome fresh bread smell would fill the whole kitchen. We would make strong coffee and each would delve into the bag. Some of us would have crispy rolls and margarine or cheese scones and biltong or a piece of fresh apple pie or rye bread with tomato and cheese or Portuguese loaf with peanutbutter and jam.

Later on in the day we would have French loaf and soup for lunch or raisin loaf with coffee or deliciously hot pies. There would also always be a large box of custard slices and cream tarts and éclairs for my mom.

Sadly, by the time I matriculated and left my hometown the bakery had closed. It is such a pity that one of the best things of my childhood does not exist anymore.