The comedian and actor on childhood barbecues, hockey, and the power of cheese
My mother insisted we got permission before opening the fridge. She had a preternatural ability to know where I was heading. She would be upstairs, 30 metres away, and shout out, “Timothy, are you pouring orange juice from a carton?” I just didn’t understand how she knew.
Dad was known for his barbecues at weekends and bubble and squeak on Sundays. We’d all have to set the table and clear the table. We had our own seats, totally structured. When my sister Nel was born, when I was eight or something, my parents decided that I should sit at the foot of the table, with Dad at the other head with Mum to his left and my baby sister to her left. It was a compensatory status move, because my brother was good at everything.
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