One of my earliest childhood memories, at seven or eight, is being driven to visit the puppy we would be taking home in a few weeks. A litter of thoroughbred cocker spaniels had been born. All the happy, barky ones had been taken, leaving one timid little fellow at the back – the runt of the litter if ever there was one.
When the big day came, we drove back to pick him up. We decided on a name, based on his hair, which was exactly the same colour as golden roasted oats: Flapjack. Or, for short: Flaps. How strange it must have sounded, hearing someone shout: “Here, Flaps,” or: “Good boy, Flaps,” across the park.
