I grew up near the sea, on the Fylde Coast.

With Fleetwood a pebble’s skim away, you were (almost) close enough to hear the rustle of the fishing nets.

Needless to say we were not short of chip shops (for some reason I’ve never been able to call them ‘chippys’. Always chip shop. Like a formal Victorian).

This battered sausage is divine. From the chip shop, you say?

The nearest was a 5 min walk away and it would be on a Friday that those magical words would be uttered…

What would you like from the chip shop?

(ah it makes sense now – my mum says chip shop too).

My answer, by the way, would be

Everything. I’d like everything please. Except mushy peas. For me they’re the work of the devil, and I just don’t understand them.

When I moved to Manchester in 2000, I couldn’t understand where…