ONE LESS PINT.

ONE LESS PINT.

I was a student in 1979, the year in which Sid Viscous departed and Margaret Thatcher arrived.

My father, who was born 99 years ago today, gave me an allowance. He was too proud to permit me to take a student grant.

Fergie was a brilliant businessman, a lover of people the bridge between my mother and I, which an absence of siblings demanded. 

He knew the value of things, but had absolutely no idea as to their cost. 

He also believed that you should start each day with a good breakfast.

It was not difficult, therefore, to persuade him that one might expect to pay five pounds for a good meal to start the day.

On the basis of this, and, of course, a decent evening meal, sufficient to sustain one until breakfast time came around once more, I lived the life of Larry.

I am a student once again and I have just had breakfast.

Two small boxes of cereal swimming in a bowl of milk garnished with the contents of a tiny plastic container of tinned fruit, two pieces of ashen bacon wedged between the stogy thighs of a white bap, and a mug of tea.

This cost me £5.25.

Not much has changed then, least of all the superficiality of my expectations and the fragility of faith when they are dashed.

And, in 1979, the extra 25 pence would have meant one less pint.