Visiting from Venus the Podcast

Torie Campbell
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Personal audio essays on love, work, aging, and becoming yourself later than planned. toriecampbell.substack.com

  1. May 10

    Argos

    Argos Before Amazon, there was a different sort of shopping phenomenon that took the UK by storm: Argos. In many ways, it was early Amazon — warehouse shopping at its absolute peak. It was the most exciting way to buy anything from toys to cheap jewellery. Rows of laminated catalogues were fixed to desks with small plastic boxes of tiny pencils that were also used when playing golf, and sheets of paper with printed spreadsheets of empty squares waiting to be filled with product numbers. There were little calculators where you could type in your product number to see if the item was in stock, and then off to the cashier to pay for something you had never even seen before. You’d eagerly wait for your number to be called so you could collect the item from a mysterious hatch backed by towering warehouse shelves. There were no items on display except for a small jewellery counter in the corner housing the exquisite Elizabeth Duke collection beneath a lit glass cabinet. Large gold hoop earrings, doll pendants and sovereign rings glistened from their maroon velvet boxes. One of the first things I would do when the new Argos catalogue came out was turn straight to the jewellery pages to choose which Elizabeth Duke piece I might one day be lucky enough to receive as an engagement ring. This is what vision boarding looked like in the 90s. One of the most popular girls in my year at school had a much older boyfriend called Scrout. At the time we all thought it was incredibly cool and impressive that he was in his twenties and dating a schoolgirl. The cherry on the cake was when he bought her an Elizabeth Duke necklace for Christmas. This is what popularity gets you. Around August, the Christmas catalogue appeared, obviously. This, alongside the Radio Times, practically counted as festive décor. Both would end up covered in graffitied biro circles. My sister and I would fight over who got to circle the items they most wanted for Christmas first. My sister would usually head for the pages of electronics like, Sega Mega Drives. I would go straight to the girls’ toys pages and be met with an array of pink hope for the future. I clearly remember circling a toy iron, ironing board and washing machine with a matching laundry basket. It seems that vision boarding worked a little too well, albeit delayed by several decades. If only I’d known back then about my absolute hatred of household chores. On more than one occasion, I’ve worn a swimming costume as substitute underwear because I refused to do a wash and had run out of pants. But as a young girl, I dreamed of an array of household appliances I could practise with before the joy of adulthood and getting to use them for real. It’s odd the boys’ toys pages didn’t have any of this — their loss. Every year I would circle a Girl’s World. That glorious head and shoulders of a woman with blonde curly hair and vacant eyes where you could practise putting in rollers and applying make-up. I’m curious – if you got one of these did you cut its hairStill to this day I have a genuine fascination with them, but never once was one under the tree for me. Other circled items that failed to make the cut included a Mr Frosty, a SodaStream and Polly Pocket. Luckily, as an adult, I now get to own a Mr Frosty and a SodaStream to sit in the cupboard doing absolutely nothing. I also quite liked the look of Sylvanian Families, but they were expensive and my friend Charlotte had the whole set, including the Treehouse. So if I fancied playing with them, my mum would just suggest a playdate at hers. I always came away with the same conclusion: a small velvet-covered shrew was nowhere near as entertaining as what a Barbie and a good imagination could get up to. Another new way of shopping appeared around this time and it was a top secret that everybody knew about. A magical warehouse that you could only enter if you had a special trade card that, in reality, required absolutely no credentials whatsoever. My dad always looked slightly nervous as he flashed his membership card while we stood nearby anticipating whether we’d be granted entry. Makro. Shelves stretched higher than seemed practical and everyday items could be bought in bulk in quantities that appeared capable of lasting an entire lifetime. Everything also seemed unbelievably cheap because the tax wasn’t added until you reached the checkout. A trip to Makro was treated like a family day out to a theme park. My best friend Fiona was allowed to buy huge plastic tubs of super sour Astro Belts and we would eat as many as we could until we felt sick and the coarse sugar coating had numbed our tongues. We weren’t allowed the jumbo sweet packs, but I do remember one particular visit when we passed a giant mound of fluffy life-size toy dogs. Out of the hundreds stacked up, one caught my eye. It was love at first sight. I hid him amongst a pile of kitchen roll and plucked up the courage to ask if I could possibly get something so elaborate. That day I went home with Wilfrid and he became one of my most treasured teddies. He was the perfect shape to nestle your head into at night and sat beside Snowy, my beloved cat teddy. Costco feels like the modern equivalent of Makro, but I still get exactly the same excited buzz whenever we visit and proudly leave with 340 toilet rolls and 54 fresh cookies that expire the next day. I’m glad small pleasures still make me happy, and I even got my original wedding ring from Argos! Now that’s how you do a vision board. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

    Argos

  2. May 3

    Sick note

    Sick day’s followed a very familiar routine. It would begin with a tummy ache, I do stand by the fact that I did, for most cases, have a genuine tummy ache – probably known nowadays as school anxiety, which also meant the minute I was given the all clear to stay at home it would subside. Luckily for me my dad would have left for work early leaving my Mum to deal with the pre-school chaos, a gentle and kind heart that meant a soft touch when it came to staying off school. I must point out here that kindness should never be mistaken for weakness – this was a piece of acting I had perfected. Once the curtain came down on act one, I would pull myself into the downstairs toilet in case by miracle I was actually sick and once the door was closed and locked I would very, very quietly jump up and down with my hands like two victory fists. By the time I had come back out the toilet, I knew the deal was sealed when the Tom and Jerry sleeping bag had been carefully laid on the sofa and TV poised for a day of daytime viewing. The utter joy of hearing the opening beats of This morning – carefully watching that slow zoom across the Albert dock before the camera finally closing in on the Ultimate ‘it’ couple Richard and Judy, because it indicated weekday TV and that indicated I had landed myself a sick day. The Madeley & Finnigan Albert Dock era was also the pinnacle of daytime TV. Once happily settled with a cold flannel the ‘gold bell’ would appear. That’s right. If, while I was watching Fred Talbot jumping between Ireland and England on the floating map and I felt I needed emergency help, I could ring the bell and my mum would emerge. One time we had misplaced the sick bell, but my mum always the creative problem solver decided to get a mop and tie it to an extra broom handle so the mop head was in the hallway and the handle just in arms reach of me, so I could raise the mop to indicate I needed medical assistance. Luckily in the early 90s we had two full proof cures for any sort of illness, it really was quite a remarkable feat of science. The first, a large glass bottle of Lucozade wrapped in dark orange cellophane - maybe to protect the medicinal excellence or to stop the e numbers and sugar content from losing their potency in daylight. The second was two spoonful’s of bright pink strawberry Calpol carefully administered on the helpful flat white spoon that came in the box. Nowadays its sugar free and comes with a plastic syringe which when I administer it to my kids almost makes me feel like a qualified doctor, or junkie. Often giving one filled syringe to them and one to me – like a sort of numbing aid for overworked mothers. If my initial attempt of a sick day failed, the back-up would be a visit to the medical room in the hope a call would be made home and I would be collected. The medical room, I imagine was like most school medical rooms - located in a cupboard. A photocopier was wedged next to a wartime style camp bed, topped with a homemade crochet blanket. It smelt of potent disinfectant, which really helped with the gag reflex when you were trying to dry heave over the schools universal bucket. Sometimes I tried so hard to bring up anything tears would stream from my eyes, but then every little helps. I was usually alone in the medical room unless it was the day the nit nurse visited, then I would be joined by the same brother and sister having their seemingly permanent residence evacuated. Until the following visit. Along with staying at home for sick days I really enjoyed trips to the local A&E. Although, to get me into an A&E waiting room nowadays I’d have to have at least one limb hanging off. The local A&E to us was not as you would imagine, it was more of a small village walk in, in a tiny hospital. A woman would sit behind a hatch in the wall and around 5 bays with beds were behind a large wooden door. I went for an array of reasons including several asthma attacks despite the fact I did not have asthma, but I really wanted one of those turquoise inhalers. Several suspect bone breaks – always turning out to be ‘just a nasty sprain’ and one time I was simply the bystander of an unfortunate incident where my mum had asked my sister to close her eyes while she tried on a ring that was a prospective Christmas present which immediately got stuck and had to be cut free from her finger that was slowly turning an odd shade of purple, using an odd can opener style piece of equipment. God, I loved that place. The village also had a doctor’s surgery which was situated in an old coaching house. The building was beautiful with low wooden beams and an array of mix and matched vintage chairs in the large waiting room. Once I clearly remember a man checking in and then falling right through one of the ancient chairs. At least he had an appointment ready and waiting for his injuries. The village doctor was called Dr Hill-cousins, he was rather charming and as you explained your ailments, he would run a hand through his floppy longish greying hair. The tricky thing with this is nobody would visit him if they weren’t looking there best – an inherent problem when visiting a doctor and on occasion it was rumoured that once finding out you had been assigned to him you would change the very reason you went in altogether. It was exciting, like our very own real-life Dr Preston from Peak Practice. Eventually my love of being sick became an annoyance and unbeknown to me a meeting was arranged with my junior schoolteacher. I was given a special job in the morning and at lunchtime to distribute the registers to each class room in a weak attempt to make the prospect of school more appealing than Richard and Judy. My teacher was told not to send me to the medical room if I complained of a tummy ache, which resulted in an unfortunate vomiting incident in the corridor one day. I believe this is what you call the boy who cried wolf – or in my case the girl who cried tummy ache! *Footnote – I have zero regrets in the enjoyment I got from sick days as a child. As soon as I became a freelancing working adult and then a mum on top of that a sick day has become obsolete. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

    Sick note

  3. Apr 26

    The First Time I Walked Into a TV Studio

    I once spent an entire evening at a sheikh’s house folded into a box, because someone thought I was the entertainment. Fitting into places I don’t quite belong has always been one of my more reliable traits. When I was around 15, I had an English teacher, Miss Stanway—a very tall, slight woman who would hang off the doorframe, twisting her long beads around her fingers like Miss Hannigan. She would smoke a packet of cigarettes in the staff car park at lunchtime, and I always imagined she had some sort of hip flask in her desk drawer. A former actress turned teacher. Or maybe just actress in her toughest role yet - secondary school teacher. She had a shout and a laugh of equal decibels, and I will never forget her leavers’ book message to me: “I hope I get the first signed copy of your book.” I often wonder if she still will. One day she called me back after class and said an opportunity had come up, and she thought of me. There was a TV studio in Southampton—Meridian—where the local news was broadcast alongside smaller productions. They were trialling a new Sunday morning teenage magazine-style show for the newly launched Channel 5 and had reached out to a few local schools for audience volunteers. I was thrilled. I picked out a button-through denim top from my sister’s wardrobe and put on a dark red lip. This could be my chance of being discovered. The night before, I called my nan to tell her I had a big surprise for her, and that she and my grandad had to be watching Channel 5 at 9am the next morning. They were the only people I knew who actually watched the newly launched Channel 5. I remember the studio feeling enormous—high ceilings in a brand new building. We were ushered into a waiting area. I can’t remember if anyone else came from my school, but I’ve always been quite happy doing things on my own. A red-faced, harassed producer with a headset appeared and told us we’d be taken through shortly, his eyes darting around the room as if tracking ten things at once. About twenty of us were led into a white studio, with three levels of block seating built into one corner. That’s where we sat. The presenter was Josie D’Arby, a well-known children’s TV presenter at the time. She was sitting in the middle row, holding a large black microphone. Suddenly, I was asked to move and sit next to her. I couldn’t believe my luck. Right next to the host. In full view. My nan and grandad would be thrilled. The studio fell quiet as the countdown began. Lights blazed. A camera swung in for a tight opening shot, framing the presenter—with me right beside her. My heart was pounding. I fixed a full red-lipped smile and edged slightly closer, just enough to be safely in frame. Screens in front of us showed the live output. The autocue flickered into life. I read the next line in my head before she said it out loud. “I’m here in a studio audience of teenage mums, including one of the youngest expectant mums to announce her news live on TV.” The realisation landed slowly, we hadn’t actually been briefed. I felt the heat rise instantly to my face—that familiar, uncontrollable flush—while I tried, as subtly as possible, to edge myself back out of shot. It wasn’t the topic. It was the image that flashed into my mind—my grandparents, sitting at home, watching in silence, trying to work out exactly what kind of “surprise” this was supposed to be. I don’t remember what the show was about after that. I just remember how quickly you can end up in the wrong place when you’re too willing to be chosen. When have you found yourself in the totally wrong place and did you have the courage to leave? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

    The First Time I Walked Into a TV Studio

  4. Apr 19

    The first person I ever chose.

    Fiona was my best friend between the ages of seven and eleven, when I, a year older, hit the rocky road of senior school and we sadly drifted apart. Something I later learned would happen many times throughout life. It was not a failure of a friendship but rather the way the soul searches out what it needs (and sometimes very much does not): lessons in a different kind of love. Fiona was what I would call a gentle soul. We lived in and out of each other’s houses during those years, separated only by a small road that connected our two cul-de-sacs. I could run to hers in under a minute and roller blade in under 20! The houses were very similar. We lived on an estate where they were propped up like a Monopoly board, all identical and as many crammed into a small square as possible - but, I always thought Fiona’s house was very posh. They had glass French doors connecting the lounge and dining room and a garden that wrapped around the house because it was on a corner plot. They were also one of the only houses that had double glazing in the form of lead diamonds across the windows. In the 90s this was a surefire way of telling the outside world, and your neighbours, that you were stylish and rich. The wonderful thing about those first intense friendships is the chance to step into another world. To understand that all the little quirks your parents have, the ones that feel completely normal to you, aren’t the norm at all. Fiona lived, in my opinion, very differently from us, although looking back those differences were actually very small. She would always have tanned skin and mosquito-bitten legs because they holidayed every year in a French villa. I thought this sounded extremely flash compared to our UK-based holiday camps. Both her parents worked full-time. Her dad was an MD of a huge company and her mum — I don’t know exactly what she did, but I always assumed it was something very important and serious. This meant that Fiona was what you would call a latchkey kid. In the 90s it wasn’t overly common for both parents to work full-time. My mum was a stay-at-home mum; her first step back into work was part-time at the local Woolworths during hours that wouldn’t affect the full-time job she already had at home. Because of this, I never once came home to an empty house. A latchkey kid, however, would use their own key and spend the first couple of hours after school alone at home. I thought this was incredibly exciting. I remember going back to one friend’s house after school and watching in absolute awe as they whipped up dinner for us - an entire bowl of raw cake batter. Another friend made a huge plastic bowl of pasta and drained half a bottle of mayonnaise over it as the sauce. I was then handed a spoon and we both ate from the same bowl. This level of self-sufficiency was both impressive and enviable. Fiona would often make a Pot Noodle for tea, it was always the green chicken and mushroom flavour with a glass of cold water sitting next to it so she could dip her fork in to keep it cool between bites and therefore eat the noodles quicker. I suppose being thrown into that level of independence early allows genius ideas like this to form. We had many similarities too - maybe this is the basis of a perfect friendship: the ideal balance of difference and sameness. We both had swings in our gardens. Ours was green metal with metal handles and Fiona’s was red plastic with blue rope holding the seat. The joy of Fiona’s swing was that we could take turns sitting on it while the other twisted the ropes round and round before letting go, the swing spinning violently in the opposite direction until the ropes had unwound and you were left dizzy and disorientated. I remember once sitting on the swing with my head lowered to get the maximum number of twists, each turn creeping the rope closer to my head. Unfortunately, when the rope began to unwind it managed to pull my very long hair into its momentum, and I became temporarily part of the swing. I looked up to see Fiona’s mum walking towards me with an enormous pair of shearing scissors to cut me free. A vivid memory. Luckily, with a lot of care and precision, my hair and I were detached from the rope with minimal damage. We also both loved animals. She had a tortoise and later a guinea pig. Her sister had a hamster which we once got out of its red plastic home and promptly lost underneath the kitchen cabinets. Her mum came home from work and had to dismantle the lower cabinets and plinth to find the missing hamster before her sister found out. Exactly the sort of activity you hope to be greeted with after a long day at work. I recall she was very angry. Fiona was also very close to her grandma, who would often come along on days out, as was I with mine. My grandparents knew Fiona well and she even came on holiday with us. I was terribly carsick in my grandad’s car on the way there, but we still managed to practise our entry to the talent show ‘Mr Postman’, the Carpenters edition which we performed in matching outfits. Looking back now, I realise that first best friends are a kind of rehearsal for the rest of life. You learn how to share a world with someone who didn’t grow up inside your own. You learn that other families eat differently, holiday differently, live differently. You learn independence by watching someone else practise it first. And then, quietly, without any real drama, you learn that friendships can end too. Not with a bang, but with a change of schools, new surroundings, new people and the slow fading of a house just across the road. But for a few years, Fiona was my whole world. And I still can’t look at a Pot Noodle without thinking about the fork in the glass of water. Who was your first best friend?I’d love to hear about them. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

    The first person I ever chose.

  5. Apr 14

    I Don’t Think This Is My ‘Give No F***s’ Era

    Three weeks before my birthday, the Family Circle book of birthday cakes would come out. I’d spend hours pouring over the pages to decide on that year’s masterpiece for my mum to recreate - a Barbie surrounded by a huge blue sponge cake dress, a whale with a carefully moulded marzipan tail, a hedgehog with hundreds of perfectly placed chocolate buttons. And later, a huge penis filled with marshmallow — although I think that one was my mum’s creation rather than anything sanctioned by Family Circle. Early birthday parties were at home. My friends and I would sit excitedly in the lounge while my mum dusted off a yellow cassette tape and placed it into the hi-fi. A man with a thick moustache and dark brown curly hair (I cant remember his name but i think it started with Bob) would then instruct us through a series of party games, using an overly enthusiastic 80’s presenter tone. After that, we’d head into the dining room for a buffet of Wotsits and sandwiches, before cake. Plastic party bags filled with Woolworths pick n mix party bag treats were handed out, and I’d go to bed happy in the knowledge I was edging closer to double figures. It was always a journey towards the next digit that held so much promise. Before I was 18, I wanted to be 18. On nights out I’d approach All Bar One swinging my keys and talking urgently on my Nokia, because both signalled “adult”, obviously. I would stand in the doorway before leaving the house and my mum would say, you look lovely, and I’d reply, but do I look 18? In fact, my entire outfit would be chosen on that premise. Before I was 24, I wanted to be 24. This ambition actually started at around the age of five, briefly paused for 18, and then resumed with full conviction. Twenty-four, to me, felt like the perfect age. When I passed 24, I decided I had until 28 to have my career up and running and life in order. When I passed 28, I decided I had until 32 to have a family and make up for the lack of order in my life. When I was 37 and pregnant, I didn’t want to be 40. And now I’m in my 40s and I find myself longing for a Barbie birthday cake and a bouncer outside All Bar One to ask me for ID. Maybe birthdays were never about the age itself, but that movement towards the imagined life ahead. So where do I go from 40? A few weeks ago, I was out on my scooter — yes, an adult stand on scooter — in my slightly less expensive brand of dry robe and woolly hat, when someone said, “I’m glad you’re embracing the give-no-f***s era.” I like the idea of that. Except I don’t think it’s true. I don’t think I care less. I think I just care about different things. For example, I care when something hurts, because I worry I’ve entered the this could be serious era. In fact the last time I went to the doctor, I walked up to the desk to check in and the receptionist leaned over to my youngest and asked, “And what’s your name?” “I’m Dylan and I’m four years old,” he said with great authority, “and this is Mummy and she’s 42 years old.” The entire waiting room erupted. Even one of the secretaries came out from the back to join in the hilarity. I laughed too, through a very reddened face — although I’m not entirely sure why, once you reach a certain age, it’s something to be hushed or joked about. Until, of course, you reach the point where you proudly tell everyone you’re eighty-something and still up and running. Despite the doctor check going well, I’ve recently gone through the painstaking process of writing a will — which feels like an unexpected topic for someone celebrating another year of life. However, I feel a small thought of mortality creeps in somewhere around the point where one packet of candles is no longer enough. Not fear exactly — just a thought. So, where do I go from here? I think I’ve realised I don’t want to go anywhere, I want to just enjoy every single moment. What was the best birthday cake you ever had? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

    I Don’t Think This Is My ‘Give No F***s’ Era

  6. Apr 5

    The soundtrack of my childhood

    My dad is a huge music lover. In our house it was more often music playing than the TV, and in my dad’s Mazda there was always a cassette tape on — unless the football results were being read out in that slow, monotone voice, or Simon Bates was delivering one of his devastating ‘Our Tune’ stories over the Romeo and Juliet love theme. If you grew up in the 90s you’ll know the feeling. Hearing that music produced the same sinking dread as the Casualty theme tune — the signal that all the good Saturday night television was over. Throughout my childhood I remember sitting in the car with my dad while he blasted his favourite songs on repeat. One year we took a disastrous family holiday to Wales. It was a particularly hot summer and before we set off on the four-hour drive my mum placed a bottle of full-fat milk in the boot so my brother — who had been breastfed longer than most humans — could also try cow’s milk as an option. Unfortunately, the entire bottle leaked. By the time we crossed the border into Wales the milk had soaked into the carpet of the boot and had possibly entered some kind of early cheese phase. The smell was so strong the air felt thick enough to chew. I’m fairly certain I put on a few pounds just from breathing it in. My dad, determined to keep morale high and focus on the road, decided the best solution was to play Tina Turner’s Simply the Best on repeat. Even now, when I hear those opening beats, my stomach turns slightly. As did the milk. I’d like to say that was what made the holiday a disaster, but unfortunate and mildly comedic mishaps seemed to follow us on most family holidays. Other songs instantly transport me back to car journeys with my dad. George Harrison’s I Got My Mind Set on You reminds me of sitting in the car eating rollmops straight from the plastic tub after swimming. Here Comes the Hotstepper was playing the day he dropped me at a birthday party. Then there was his version of I’m Horny, where he confidently replaced the word “horny” with “honey”. To this day I’m still not sure whether he was sparing us the embarrassment or genuinely believed that Mousse T were singing about honey. When I was about eight our hi-fi in the lounge was upgraded — a major household purchase and one that would provide the soundtrack to much of my childhood. My dad proudly installed a towering three-deck sound system. It had a radio, two cassette tape players, and — most impressively — an interchangeable CD player that could hold five discs at once and switch between them automatically. It lived in its own unit in the living room alongside a growing CD collection. Two large speakers stretched across the room on impossibly thin wires and flanked the armchair beside the system, creating a sort of surround sound experience — provided you were sitting in that exact chair. This was the system that blasted out Dr Fox on Sunday evenings so we could listen to the final Top Ten. I vividly remember my brother and I swinging each other around the room to Cotton Eye Joe one year. It was through this system that the Lighthouse Family soundtracked slow Sunday mornings, family parties were powered by Rod Stewart, Tina Turner and Lionel Richie, and one particular Christmas dinner was accompanied by Enya singing about Caribbean Blue. I never quite understood the festive connection, but it somehow made the meal feel oddly middle class. Slade returned the following year. One morning I walked downstairs to find my dad marching around the kitchen to Amarillo — the Peter Kay version — pausing only briefly at the kettle to pour me a cup of tea before continuing his lap of the room. It was an excellent way to start the day. Luckily, I had left home before his obsession with Neil Diamond truly kicked in. One strange summer my dad struck up a friendship with our neighbours two doors down. For fifteen years they had largely kept themselves to themselves. But over the garden fence one afternoon my dad heard the unmistakable opening of Sweet Caroline. The music was coming from the house of the man we all referred to as “the Woolworths man” — a nickname I’ve never fully understood. What I did know was that if a ball rolled onto his immaculate front lawn I would immediately run and hide in our porch before his angry face appeared at the door. But on this occasion, when my dad started loudly singing along over the fence, no angry face appeared. Instead there was a beaming smile and the music was turned up louder. Soon the two of them were singing together in perfect, enthusiastic unison. After that the neighbours and my parents went to several concerts together. My mum was always slightly in awe that they brought shop-bought M&S sandwiches on the coach trips rather than homemade ones. She couldn’t quite believe that someone who lived only two doors down could be that posh. Music does that though. It brings people together. It creates memories and friendships and moments that somehow stay with you forever. And sometimes all it takes is the opening beat of a song to take you straight back to childhood — to long car journeys, terrible holiday smells, and a dad turning the volume up far too loud. Which is why, whenever I hear Simply the Best, I don’t really think of Tina Turner. I think of my dad. And honestly — he really is. Simply the best. What song instantly takes you back to childhood?I’d love to hear it in the comments. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

    The soundtrack of my childhood

  7. Mar 29

    Shepherd’s Pie on Toast

    My mum had a recipe that, to me as a child, felt like the ultimate treat..Two thick slices of white farmhouse bread, topped with leftover shepherd’s pie, smothered in cheddar and grilled until the cheese bubbled and browned. It was then drowned in Worcestershire sauce and eaten on a lap tray while watching Coronation Street. Shepherd’s pie on toast. Absolute bliss. If you’d like to recreate it, the instructions are simple. Take two slices of thick white farmhouse loaf (it can only be this), pile it high with reheated, one-day-old homemade shepherd’s pie, generously cover with cheddar cheese and put under the grill until the cheese is bubbling and caught in several places. Remove from the grill, place on a plate with lashings of Worcestershire sauce and serve on a lap tray – preferably one decorated with an 80’s floral print or pictures of cats. Eat with a knife and fork whilst watching Coronation Street. Bliss. This was a recipe reserved for my parents usually on a Friday night. It was one of the most delicious things I never ate and I promised myself that when I was an adult I too would eat shepherd’s pie on toast every week, as well as Coco Pops for breakfast every morning – because why, when you become an adult, does breakfast have to become so dull? I’m sorry to report I do neither. I realised somewhere around the age of seven that my sweet tooth must have fallen out before my adult teeth came in, and I am not organised enough to make a weekly shepherd’s pie. Meals growing up were on a rotary basis – on reflection a very clever and sensible move by my mum, who made us a home cooked meal every day. Planning family meals is still something I have yet to conquer. Perhaps this is the solution that was there all along – a lesson revisited. Every Sunday we would have a roast dinner, eaten all together in the dining room. Usually chicken which my dad would carve whilst strategically positioned to look out the kitchen window – oddly the chicken whole had far more meat on it than after it had been carved! I would tuck my head under his carving arm, like a bird, waiting to be fed offcuts – all that was usually left was the parson’s nose – which, if you have ever had a roast dinner with me, you will know is my absolute favourite part of the bird. I’ve since learned it’s a delicacy in some cultures and is, in fact, the chicken’s arse. My sister and I would take it in turns to lay the table including placing a crystal cut wine glass out for my mum – and one for us each to pretend with. It was a classic Sunday tradition and would usually be served around two, which meant supper would be a light meal of ‘poppy eggs and soldiers’ – always runny yolks for a good old dip and always turning the egg shell over at the end and asking if anyone would like an egg before cracking the empty shell as a joke. Monday we would come home from school and take our plated-up leftover roast dinner out of the fridge and put it in the microwave, eagerly watching the clingfilm balloon into a huge plastic dome before bursting and collapsing back onto the food — lightly seasoning everything with what we now know were probably deadly toxins. Sometimes the gravy would already be on the plate in a jelly-like state and sometimes we made it from scratch – two heaped spoons of Bisto mixed with boiling water and occasionally drained through a sieve. Tuesdays would be leftover roast chicken (yes, still) in a white garlicky sauce with peppers and mushrooms served with rice – one of my favourites – or, if the chicken did not stretch until Tuesday, some sort of sausage dish. If lucky encased in a huge flowery Yorkshire pudding and if not so lucky slightly soft and anaemic looking in a stew. I presume Mum did the weekly shop on a Thursday because Wednesday relied heavily on the freezer. Breaded fish with waffles and baked beans. Thursday the freshly bought mince came out to make a Bolognese, lasagne or shepherd’s pie – hence the shepherd’s pie leftovers saved for my parents on a Friday. Uncle Ben’s sweet and sour sauce with extra pineapple served over chicken, with rice, peas and sweetcorn, would be what we ate. My mum never threw anything out, no waste at all. There would always be a leftover of sorts in the fridge and once I had started going out and drinking a breakfast of cold lasagne was my favourite. Saturday nights were a free for all where my mum and dad would order an Indian takeaway. I presume the regularity of ordering was the reason why one particular Saturday with friends over for my dad’s birthday, the restaurant had lined the bottom of the large cardboard box holding the takeaway pots with a collection of Page Three newspaper cuttings. Talking of takeaway pots, my mum was thrilled when they started using plastic ones and she could wash them up and stack them in one of the cupboards to never use again. My sister and I would order from the Chinese which meant a tub of egg fried rice for my sister and battered sausage and chips for me – because a Chinese takeaway always seemed to also be a fish and chip shop. My younger brother would probably still be breastfeeding. Dinners would usually be eaten on laps in the lounge. After school my sister and I would set up two trays that had legs either side and stood alone. We would sit on the floor with our backs to the floral couch and legs outstretched under the trays to watch Home and Away and Neighbours. Saturday nights would be a classic rundown of Saturday night telly and then Sundays back to the dining room. Those were the meals that shaped me — quite literally. Nothing has ever tasted quite as good as my mum’s cooking did back then. And I still maintain there is nothing better to put on toast than shepherd’s pie. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

    Shepherd’s Pie on Toast

  8. Mar 22

    The Paper Round That Funded My Failed Smoking Career

    At thirteen I was paid £4.95 to deliver 247 newspapers. Each one earned me two pence. This was not the glamorous kind of paper round where you delivered the Sunday papers from the local newsagent and were rewarded with Christmas tips from loyal Daily Mail readers. No. This was the freebie paper. Every other week, 247 copies would be dumped in our garage on top of the chest freezer — which, by the way, is only useful if you need to store a lot of frozen food or dispose of a body. Stacks and stacks of papers would sit there until I had the motivation to perform this thankless task — often with my mum in tow helping, and eventually taking over completely. This, I’m not proud of. As you can imagine, the weight of 247 newspapers is extremely heavy and, although I was provided with a luminous orange plastic bag that sat perfectly against the back of my knees — taking me out every other step — I quickly realised I needed another method of transportation. To begin with, my mum followed me in her car with a back-up supply of papers to reload the orange bag, in a sort of kerb-crawling manner. It was both impractical and possibly illegal. It was at this point that my mum had one of her ingenious ideas. My nan had a pull-along shopping trolley. When my sister and I stayed with her as kids, we would slip into her daily routine of walking down the huge hill she lived on to Safeways to pick up The Sun for my grandad, along with a loaf of bread and some milk, before walking back up the enormous hill home. I enjoyed keeping her company while my sister would race ahead pulling the trolley behind her. It was one of those boxy, waist-height trolleys in purple check material, pulled along on two wheels with a stand to keep it upright when loading shopping. It is only used by people who also collect a pension or can ride a bus for free. So here I was, in that all-important coming-of-age early-teen stage, pulling my nan’s shopping trolley around the village delivering the local freebie paper — which I later learned was only really read by our immediate neighbour, Tony. On reflection, delivering one next door and the remaining 246 to the local skip would have been a far easier job — and one I later learned was the method used by anyone else who nominated themselves for this particular paper round, carving off the pen marks down the edge that indicated whose round was whose. The joy I felt when that small square brown envelope dropped through the letterbox. I would count out the pound coins and loose change before cramming it into my pocket for a Friday night well spent at the park. My friend Jenaire and I would pool our coins together so we had enough for ten Marlboro Lights and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 — our favourite flavour being Strawberry and Kiwi. I always felt slightly like an imposter at the park. I used to think they were very generous to let me join the group, which was mainly made up of kids from the year above. The boys wore spliffy jeans — low-slung denim embroidered with a boy smoking a spliff — and the girls wore an array of sovereign rings on both hands, sometimes even hanging from chains around their necks. I had neither of these fashion statements. Despite the reputation of groups of teenagers hanging around parks, we really were harmless. Jenaire, my trusted ally, was one of the most kind-hearted, gentle souls. If I’m honest, I think Jenaire and I earned our place in the group through association with much cooler older siblings and the ultimate key of approval — cigarettes and alcohol. Ironically, the hours and hours of my life I lost doing that paper round were probably doubled by what I used the money for. The paper round lasted less than a year, but I desperately tried to start the habit of smoking for many years after. I just couldn’t get on board. The last time I tried was only a few years ago when a friend brought over some Vogue super-slimline cigarettes — très chic. I took one drag and instantly vomited. Not très chic. £4.95 well spent. What did you spend your first pay check on? This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com

    The Paper Round That Funded My Failed Smoking Career
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Personal audio essays on love, work, aging, and becoming yourself later than planned. toriecampbell.substack.com

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