I went to a boarding school in the late 70's and 80's
A school of 500 boys, all of whom had fathers or mothers who were serving or had served in the army. A school with a military charter...that saw us in uniforms for parades, and marching to breakfast and lunch...called to the dining room by the sound of a bugle.
The dreaded bugle call...3 square meals...of indifferent quality, bereft of taste or variety, lacking in colour and appeal, nutrient and sustenance. You ate everything you were given, despite its greasy, lacklustre, unpalatable nature...but were always left hungry...where blancmange was common and olives unheard of...where you could lay concrete slabs with the porridge and the word vegetarian never graced any dictionary of cooking.
My memories are of food without colour or texture, browns mingle with yellows and greys, everything unseasoned, everything stringy, chewy, weak, bland, powdered or reconstituted. My poem...
Breakfast Served
Bugle sounds
Breakfast is served
Marching in file
A uniformed herd
To sit on bench
To await your fate
Will the last greasy fried egg
Land with misfortune upon your plate
To drink tea weakened unbrewed
Milk lumpen powdered not drunk but chewed
Trudge in silence to stand in line
Present yourself for it is time
Eat, scoff and swallow with rapacious speed
So to avoid tastes that assault, not out of schoolboy greed
Feed the stomach but starve the soul
Finished off congealed custard atop Arctic Roll
Vegetarian vegan dietary needs unlearnt
Eat what you're given even if it is burnt
"Endure your meal" was often said
As we dripped in hot grease from stale fried bread
Mealtime done released from the trial
To collect books and bags to class with not a smile
To sit and stare at blackboard and chalk
As the breakfast sits, heavy, restless and ready to talk
