The smell of wet wool and chip fat hit me walking past the market on County Road — Mum's old duffle coat, the one with the toggle missing, dragging in the puddles while she shouted at the butcher for short-changing her sixpence. Dad just stood there rolling a fag, hands raw from the cold, letting her go on because he knew it wasn't really about the money. Still can't pass a butcher's window without my chest going tight.