Talking Point with Vicky Turrell: Fish vans, pyjama tops and the treats we remember

There was a mug of coffee on the top of a gatepost in town. What was going on? I saw a hand reach up from behind and put it there. Then the voice from over the wall said, ‘Tell him his coffee is here when you see him’.

We were waiting for the fish van again. We were early and there was a long queue. We stood whilst the man in a van arrived. But first he had a sip of coffee for his treat. We bought crab from Bridlington. It had come all the way across country from Yorkshire to Shropshire, just like me.

I was hoping that there were others like me in the jabs queue, but I dared not look. You see, I was in my pyjama top again. For the flu injection, they ask that you attend in a short-sleeved garment so that they can proceed quickly. The only suitable top I have is my pyjama top, so that is what I wore. No one said anything and the whole procedure went without a hitch.

My online clothes shopping, though, did not go without a hitch. I ordered ‘extra small’, which is what I am. I then had lots of notifications to say that they had received my order, that it had been dispatched, received by the courier and then was out for delivery. We were not in! Sometimes this online shopping is not as hassle-free as you would think. Then, to my dismay, the T-shirt was too small. I must have grown to the next size. Now I need to think about packaging it and returning it, but my friend cannot be bothered to return items like this. Instead, she takes them to a charity shop and then orders again.

I successfully shop for all my groceries online. I think of how my mother shopped for food. Every Wednesday, Mr Clark came in a van to take her order. He sat with his cup of coffee and Mam told him what she wanted, and he wrote it down in his notebook. Then, before he left, we all looked in his van, which was full of cakes for us to choose from. On Friday, our order was delivered from the local grocers in cardboard boxes and left on our kitchen table. It was the same every week.

Our silage was not the same as today’s, though. Here, the cut grass is balled up in black polythene bags. We had a silage pit built. I remember it was a huge ramp, and the tractors went up and down to compact it. My dad poured molasses on. We dipped our fingers in and sucked the bittersweet liquid – another treat for us.