Sunday entertainment

I remember my Mom and hand cream
Lots and lots of hand cream.

Sometimes, she would complain about how chapped and bloody her hands had become. And she would rub them vigourously with hand cream that smelled of rose water or perfume.
There was always a tube of hand cream, standing on its head by the kitchen sink. The scent of plastic lemons. The static blue of the large TV screen in the living room.
And the Beachcombers starting at nine.

Small, greased up, crispy hands.