Teacher's

Despite the size of grandma Harris's family, she seemed to have time for other activities.  The house was always spotless and in the middle of the kitchen floor was a galvanised zinc bath which contained tubes of rubber and glass phials in which she made soda and lemonade.  Some of this ended up in a beautiful, shiny siphon covered in black netting.

The men in the family were practical jokers and loved to take the piss out of their nephews and nieces.  My Uncle Maurice was fond of a glass of whiskey and took the opportunity to introduce the water of life to me as I sat on his knee.  I was about 4-years old.  “Have a sip,” he said.  “Go on, have a sip.”  He put the glass to my lips and I drank a mouthful of whiskey.  Suddenly, my mouth was on fire and if you doubt that we have a memory of taste then I can assure you the smoky burning taste of that whiskey is branded into my mind.  Teacher’s whiskey, it was.

“You’ll never drink whiskey again, will you?” he asked.  I can’t remember replying but I did swear to myself at the time that I would never ever touch this dreadful stuff again.  Of course, I did and do enjoy a malt from time to time.