Published by The Cloister
ON SALE NOW
We left London at the end of July 1952. I was
aged nine years and three months. After an hour of us kids
performing our expected roles, repeatedly asking in a whine from
the back seat whether or not we were there yet, we parked outside
our new home. I noted the single-storey eatery come comfort stop
next door appeared more than a little American in style, like the
diners cropping up on lonely highways in movies, only much larger
than any I’d seen. The land too, coming with the property, I could
only describe as being vast and then some. Brightly lit up in pink
and blue neon strip lighting, complete with a picture of a chubby
tart’s face winking down saucily at the forecourt, the business
went by the name of Fat Sheila’s. Well, at least that gave us kids
the first laugh in a long time!
Not all boys grow up
The coming of age and the stories
of a few lives Fat Sheila touched.
This romp will be a bit of a learning curve for some, while
for any old fruits like me, if you were lucky it might
be a hell of a trip down memory lane. - MK.
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