Read the first page of a life story, free

Like listening to them talk at the kitchen table. Plain words, gentle humour, close to how they speak.

Every Sunday my father took me to the bakery on Mill Lane. I can still smell it now: warm bread, a bit of burnt sugar. He always bought two iced buns, one for me and one he said was for my mother, though I never once saw it reach her. When I asked him about it years later, he just winked and said, "Some things are better kept between a man and his bun."

Rich and reflective, like a well-loved book. Scenes, detail and a gentle look back.

On Sunday mornings the town was still half asleep when my father and I set out for the bakery on Mill Lane. The windows were fogged with warmth, and the air inside smelled of fresh bread and sugar caught at the edge of burning. He bought two iced buns every week, one for me and one, he insisted, for my mother. I never saw the second bun reach home. Only much later did I understand that those walks were his way of giving me an hour that belonged to the two of us.

Told about them rather than by them, like a biography. Good for memorial books and family histories.

Every Sunday, Tom's father walked him to the bakery on Mill Lane. It was the one hour of the week the two of them spent alone together. His father always bought two iced buns, one for Tom and one, so he said, for Tom's mother, though Tom never saw it arrive home. Asked about it decades later, his father only winked: "Some things are better kept between a man and his bun."

Written as if speaking straight to the reader: a child, a grandchild, the next generation.

You asked me once why I still buy iced buns on Sundays. It goes back to my father. Every Sunday he walked me to the bakery on Mill Lane and bought two: one for me, and one he said was for your great-grandmother. It never made it home. I think those walks were the best hours of my week, and I think they were his too. So if you ever see me with an iced bun on a Sunday, now you know who I am thinking of.