A: Peas, sprouts, cool uncles

My best friend once said, if he ever got to write the story of my
life, he'd start with a certain anecdote. And he'd probably tell it
like this (much the same as I told it to him) . . .

It's an extended-family Sunday Roast, in the space that will continue
to be defined as a dining room until the day when my dad will take to
one of its walls with a sledgehammer. It will then constitute part of
the kitchen. But it's a dining room now. I am seven.

I'm strangely positioned at the head of the table (a bit like the
birthday boy at a kid's party), and (anti-clockwise) we have Mum, Dad,
the brothers, Gran, Auntie Lyn (plus whoever her current boyfriend is)
and Auntie Sue (cool, young, good-looking auntie; smokes fags; her
carefree outlook on life so at loggerheads with my mum's
do-the-right-thing nonsense.)

Finally, directly to my left, is Mel. Mel is Sue's boyfriend, her
future husband (and future ex-husband), not to mention future father to
her children. He is a 6' 3" moustachioed forklift truck driver from the
Wirral. He has the sharp scouse wit that I will find grating in my
adulthood, but at present he is my role model: lighting farts in front
of me; relating dirty factory-canteen jokes when the parents aren't
around; sharing a love for pool, early computer games, and a child's
lust for life. THIS is what a dad should be like. When I'm older, I'm
gonna be a Mel.

A quip occurs to me. Fortuitously, the table falls quiet save for the
sound of overcooked vegetables being orally broken down. This, I think,
is my big moment. I raise my fork, with a look of mock interest. On it,
two peas are impaled.

"They don't make apples like they used to," I proclaim
assertively.

The table erupts into a mixture of polite and genuine laughter.
Everyone is chuckling about, commenting on, "aw"-ing and "bless"-ing at
my precocious attempt at Wildean mirth-making. Everyone, everyone,
except that is . . .

. . . Mel.

Poker-faced, gaze fixed firmly on plate, Mel reorganises the legacy of
his meal.

No. This can't be. The rest of these people can go to hell. I need YOU
to laugh, Mel. How do I know I'm on the right humour-track if you don't
even acknowledge me? I must have a sign, Mel. You've got to show me
that you approve; that you see my potential.

Mel turns to me and, offering a forked brussel sprout under my nose for
inspection, smiles and says, "Or cabbages."