I remember chip shops selling pickled eggs in a large sweet jar. The contents never appeared to diminish between childhood and adult years, and I came to regard them in the same way as charity donation boxes in the same establishments, a variety of permanent decoration.
A good pork pie is a thing of beauty but they give me heartburn in my dotage. Quality counts, and is uncommon, most are blob of salted meat in a sea of jelly with a dense crust, which is inversely proportional to the correct contents. Most scotch eggs are the same, a tiny egg bouncing round in an undercooked ball of doughy crumbs. Any of them were impossible delicacies in the pubs of my youth, whose food supply went little further than a bag of salted peanuts sold from a card dispenser that slowly revealed a topless woman. Asking for a bag of crisps was likely to receive a swift, "what d'you think we are, a b***** restaurant?!" Happy days.
