Bone china floral pattern cups with curlicue handles on deep saucers, with matching side-plates on white lacy doilies, laid out on a blindingly immaculate linen tablecloth. In the middle, a long-spouted teapot wearing a knobbly, knitted woollen coat sits on a gleaming chrome-plated stand. But all the attention is drawn to the three-tier, silver-framed cake-stand, with its abundance of fondant fancies in yellows and pinks and whites and blues, each with a matching floral frosted topping. And on the bottom tier, carefully marshalled stacks of dainty, triangular, crust-removed white sandwiches with their cargo of ham and tongue and chicken and potted meat. Sunday morning ritual, ordered and reliable as a train running on time in a time when they did. And each week, the be-on-your-best-behaviour wonder of children allowed to play at grown-ups, obediently sitting up straight in the dark brown bentwood, wicker-seated chairs. And from the kitchen, the music of pots and pans clattering to the quavering soprano of a wordless song from my grandmother signalling that all is well in her world.