I grew up in a house in Peckham with two kitchens, but unfinished, like a building site, with no doors on cupboards. My parents bought the house to convert into two flats but it was a long project. We rarely ate as a family. The kitchen upstairs was pretty much a write-off and the kitchen downstairs had space for only a small table, so just me and my brother would eat together. His appetite was ridiculous and he'd say: "Katy, look over there, it's the magic squirrel" and I'd look around and say "Where?", and he'd steal some of my food and I'd get really upset.
When I was about five, mum made cod and potatoes and I didn't want it, because it was all boiled. So I was crying over the plate, as Dad mashed the cod into the potatoes to try to encourage me. And I remember how the added salt from my tears made it taste nice. So, a happy ending.
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