Each Friday we have a fish feast for tea, which is the thing that we call our evening dinner. Like every other person we know, we have breakfast, supper, and tea. Lunch is some dinner we've just caught wind of, something opulent individuals eat, maybe including caviar. However, on Fridays, we realize Mum will get back from the fishmonger a few pounds of sprats, twofold enveloped by white butcher's paper. She opens up the bundle in the kitchen and the gleaming mass crawls across the yellow Formica table. She takes every sprat among finger and thumb, touches it in white flour, and drops it into sizzling fat. We eat fish on Fridays in light of the fact that that is the thing that Catholics do, however she likewise enjoys sprats on the grounds that she's don't need to gut them, so they're not
