Every Wednesday we fetch bread from the baker’s in the village before school. All the bread is past its sell-by date and actually supposed to go to the chickens, but we mainly eat it ourselves. Dad says, ‘If the chickens don’t get ill from it, neither will you.’ I still get worried sometimes that mould will grow inside me, that one day my skin will turn blue and white, like the spiced buns Dad slices the mould off with a big knife before serving to us, and that in due course, I’ll only be good as chicken feed.
