honey

He knew by the honey.

The muted crunch of the hot, buttery wholemeal toast that transported it, sure that too, but the sweetness flooding his tongue and the aroma of that honey mixed with the smell of the home he knew so well meant he could only be at his grandparents' house, any Saturday morning of the late 80s. The angular primary colours and Schofield-babbling of Going Live had him transfixed, although they never seemed to achieve focus or be comprehensible - surely it would be Trev and Simon soon.

Just as he finished the last mouthful of his breakfast he heard someone behind him call his name. He began to turn, but everything slowed down and continued to slow more and more. He saw the orange plastic hairpin which had fallen to the floor, he panned interminably across the myriad tiny imperfections in the smoothness of the tiled fireplace, he began to make out the fabric of his Grandma's armchair in the corner of his left eye and everything got slower and slower, everything slipped further and further away, every outline grew less distinct, every colour bled and faded. All the comfort and familiarity, all the warmth and colour, all the love drained away as as the aftertaste of honey slipped away from his tongue all he felt was alone.