There's a cake on our shared table at work: pink with soft, light whipped-cream icing and little rosettes at each wedge. It promises to taste of birthdays, celebrations and children's parties. I've already had a slice, but I want another one. I want to taste my childhood again, to reminisce through the Vaselined-lens of time.
The strawberries don't taste of much, but I'm not actually tasting these ones. I'm tasting the ones I remember. The ones on the Kellogg's cornflakes boxes; whoever thought of putting strawberries with cornflakes created an entire generation of people for whom the first taste of a strawberry was imagined, fantasised and built up for years before they actually had access to this (usually) air-freighted fruit from the West.
The cake is light but nothing special, really. I don't see balloons, streamers or fried noodles; hear the music for pass-the-parcel, musical chairs or statues. But the pink still lures me with its promises.
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