I feel I talk a lot about tuck boxes. This is maybe because, ignoring conveniently the dark side of them, I do fetishise boarding schools. This was fuelled early by Enid Blyton’s St Clare’s books. Books to which I returned often, way into adult hood, when the world seemed too big.
There was always clear justice in Blyton’s books: you do good and you come good, you do bad and, well, you’re forgiven because you’re sorry and promise to do better. This was justice, and reflection, often lacking in the topsy-turvy real world. And then there were the tuck boxes, brimming with implausibly paired goods, such as sardines and tinned peaches and birthday cakes, that defied delivery services to arrive intact and raring to be sliced into greedily.
