Just wrote a little story after this memory was triggered. I never did say thank you. First draft, just key points. I’ll try get it into a Christmas card

I remember when I moved to Aberdeen, you continued cooking for 4. The shared house was filthy, dishes stacked high, cat litter box 2 foot from the fridge. I cleaned the kitchen top to bottom when I moved in…came back to a mess and no apologies.

From then until I moved out, I kept a single plate and cutlery set in my room. Eat, wash repeat. The kitchen was a health hazard, so I lived on ready-meals…except when I had a freezer box from you.

I saved those up, for a treat.

When I was down, or tired of surviving on almost out of date Morrisons pastries…I popped one of your boxes in the microwave…climbed into bed and ate piping hot lasagna.

What I couldn’t finish, I ate cold in the morning.

I remember the long walk up George street, my back frozen from all the boxes in my backpack.

I never said thank you. It’s only looking back now that I have a bit of perspective of how good I had it.

A bit late, but thank you