At sixty-six, I tend not to get invited to as many sleep-overs as I did many years ago.

Within my Balham block of flats, there lived another family with kids my age.  If our respective parents went out, I would sleep in their flat.  I loved it; and loved it for one reason: crispy bacon.

My friend’s dad was a salesman for a toy manufacturer, so there was always be the best new toys in their flat.  However, you can keep Flounders; Happy Families and anything involving attaching something to a magnet and a bit of string, it was the morning fry-up I looked forward to.   I probably already had high cholesterol at six!

I didn’t need waking up the next morning, as the smell of frying bacon would waft into our bedroom.  Auntie Sylvia (she wasn’t my real auntie) could have won countless worldwide competitions for cooking bacon.

However, before the morning food fest begun, we’d still have fun the previous evening – staying awake (to the babysitter’s probable annoyance) until 9.30 – which we thought must be tomorrow already!  We’d plan night-time expeditions to the kitchen – although, I did think to myself, we’d better not eat all the bacon or anything which would have made me still full the following morning.

At sixty-six, I’m still getting up at midnight, only not to raid the fridge – or to find Penelope Plod, the policeman’s daughter. 😊