(An excerpt from my autobiography)
Sat on the 1960's stool I'd just bought, memories wound back the years to the last time I had sat on one exactly the same.
I was a little girl sat in my grandmothers kitchen, watching her magnificently baking on the yellow table in front of me. I cut the pastry and filled tarts with jam every time I watched her making a mountain of treats to last the week. I could never forget how grandma folded the steps of the stool down onto the floor so my little floating feet could rest on them.
I closed my eyes and sniffed. My senses were filled with the cooker's tantalising aroma of pastries warming the tiny kitchen as her traditional cakes and biscuits filled the table.
I opened my eyes. I was in my kitchen with my 6-year-old daughter seated in her favourite chair.
Wanting to give my daughter the same pleasures my grandmother gave me, I took my grandmothers recipe book and set to work. Soon my daughter was cutting pastry circles as I filled them with their coconut and jam fillings.
The aroma that emanated from the cooker made my eyes glisten in memory of grandma.