IT began with a hankering for Findus Crispy Pancakes. An idle Sunday afternoon, peering in at the lacklustre contents of my fridge, wondering why nothing was taking my fancy. Finally, the penny dropped: the dial on my comfort food cravings was set to 1980-something.

Lately, I've found myself daydreaming about iced party ring biscuits, sherbet-filled flying saucers, Viennetta ice cream, Angel Delight and Fine Fare own-brand crisps.

That's the thing about lockdown. Physically we may be safe in our homes, but emotionally and psychologically the brain is seeking some intangible respite.

My mind's eye conjures an orange sliced in two, each half wrapped neatly in tinfoil and bedecked with cocktail sticks bearing pineapple chunks, cubes of cheese and vinegar-laden picked onions.

It's a warming gulp of soup at my gran's house on a Friday, arriving fresh off the bus after school. Feeling the heat seep back into my fingers while cradling one of the familiar red mugs she always used, the pair of us huddled either side of her three-bar electric fire.

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Or visiting my other gran on a Saturday when I would wolf down high tea, my eyes never leaving the tier of the cake stand which held my unwavering favourite, a coconut iced bun from Lightbody of Hamilton, an unbridled joy that would only be mine if I cleared my plate.

I remember the meals my mum used to leave plated up in the fridge when she was on the backshift. Meat and potatoes. Cauliflower cheese. Stovies. For pudding, I'm drizzling the technological marvel that was Bird's Ice Magic over an Arctic roll. I could probably do a TEDx Talk on the subject.

There was the time I lobbied to have spaghetti bolognese for dinner rather than "boring" mince and tatties. I can still see myself proudly carrying it aloft from the kitchen, the sophisticated aroma wafting beneath my nostrils – only to trip over the dog and upend my bowl on to the living room carpet, leaving a glowing stain that no amount of scrubbing would shift.

And, ah yes, Findus Crispy Pancakes, an experience I once heard likened to eating baby food out of a searing hot slipper. If I could devour any classic filling it would be chicken curry. Minced beef comes a close second. I'm so certain about this choice, I would happily laminate that statement.

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I realise, though, that all of this reminiscing is less about the food itself than what it represents: precious time spent with those long gone and desperately missing everyone we can't see through our current necessary estrangement.

I look forward to when we will all sit round a table again. Until then, I will feast on memories.

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