“Now I don’t want you fooling around with this, boy of yours.” My father expressed to me while spitting tiny granules of fruit cake out of the sides of his mouth as he spoke.
“Dad, you trust me don’t you?” I tried to persuade him.
“Of course I trust you, I just don’t trust him.” He said, followed by a large gulp of tea. My father was British and the only way he found fit to have a personal conversation with someone was to do it over tea and fruit cake, it usually worked though because mum would make hers from scratch and just the taste of it would make someone want spill all of their deepest, darkest secrets. Needless to say I had nothing to hide at this point in time.