It all began, and ended, with a Chinese takeaway. It has always been the feast of choice for celebrations, birthdays and anniversaries in our house. But a surprise midweek takeaway one night in 1982 seemed to change all of that.
‘HE’S NOT GOING TO DIE OR ANYTHING IS HE?’
I was 14 when my mum Cynthia told me my dad Terry had a terminal illness as I sat in the front seat of the car, clutching a box of warm Chinese takeaway, desperate to dive into the sweet-and-sour pork balls as they began to make fatty stains on their paper
