We used to have sandwiches in our lunch boxes every day at school. Vegemite when we were tiny, then, as a sign of our growing maturity, ham and salad when we moved to secondary school. White bread, margarine, sliced on the diagonal, wrapped in glad wrap. Sandwiches day in, day out.
There are no complaints here - it was a relatively healthy meal and it was kind of dependable. If everything was going wrong in your nine year old life (long division sucked and they'd run out of cheese popcorn in the canteen), you knew you'd be able to reach into your blue plastic lunch carrier and unwrap some of the salty black tar in between two white slices. Strange thing to look forward to, but I've never claimed to be the most normal child.
Every morning, we'd get dressed and the four of us would rush frantically out the door to chase the school bus down the road. On our way out, we'd grab our lunchbox from the bench and scoot. Paul's little lunchbox was blue. So was the container Mum used to keep the cheese.
