Caroline Smailes - In Search of Adam

Sausage rolls.

Crispy cakes.

Jelly.

Fairy cakes.

Scones.

Biscuits.

Crisps.

Hard-boiled eggs.

Crackers.

Spam sandwiches.

Ham sandwiches.

Jam sandwiches.

Egg sandwiches.

Rice.

A reet royal spread.

At the table, outside my mother’s house, Rita poked sausages onto cocktail sticks. She wore a commemorative apron over a short red skirt and a white shirt. Her white stilettos finished off the look. She looked quite normal from the front, but not from behind. As she bent over the table her fat dimply thighs squelched under the hem of the skirt. No tights because it was the summer. It was hot. The sun was shining. Rita was orange from her sunbed sessions. Like a wrinkled Satsuma. Mrs Lancaster (Number 7) told Rita that the tan made her legs look thinner. I didn’t understand. She had fat thighs. Big fat orange pork sausages. Juicer than the flimsy ones that she was poking onto sticks. I watched them all from my mother’s front room window. I heard everything through the open windows. But I would look only when there was a break or a boring discussion on TV.

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