As a child, I dreamed of a well-stocked freezer. Come the end of the Brexit countdown, I might actually need one
When you’re a child, you tend to have more than a few unshakeable ideas about what will happen when you’re older. Some girls assume they will get married, and have a family. Some fantasise about wearing hard hats, flying to the moon, editing a newspaper or performing brain surgery. I won’t go into all my girlish dreams here; I was a strange child, and no one wants to hear about the archaeological museum I ran for a time in my bedroom (free entry, but once you had entered, it was pretty hard to leave). But of one desperately dull thing I was always convinced: that by the time I was fully grown up, whatever that meant, I would own a vast and well-stocked freezer.
In my childhood, freezers were a thing: a symbol of middle-class achievement that was almost, if not quite, as good as owning a Volvo estate. If you had the room – a cellar, say, or a pantry – the ne plus ultra of below-zero white goods was a chest freezer: the kind of model inside which dead bodies are kept in crime shows. But at a push, an upright affair would just about pass muster, especially if it had natty wire baskets on little runners.
Yes, I'm filling the freezer. No, I'm not hoarding… | Rachel Cooke