Decades later, and 2,000 miles from Hemel Hempstead, I keep it filled with a good selection of Italian and English biscuits. Our own biscuit tin fell off the top of the fridge a few weeks ago, but the dent means it now closes better. And then there was the delicious story about someone in accounts who, working late, would eat the contents of an entire tin. I want to remember Hobnobs, too, which launched in 1985, the same year as EastEnders and the Anglo-Irish agreement. Like my grandma’s tin, they were filled with different combinations of the good ones: chocolate digestives, plain digestives, custard creams, bourbons, ginger nuts (Dad’s favourite, and not only because he, too, was ginger). When we visited as kids, those tins were hugely important. She took the tea towels home, and made sure the biscuit tins were always full. While it was communal, the small kitchen was Veronica’s, and immaculate. Welcome everywhere, she knew everyone and what they needed, be that strong tea with milk and one sugar, or black with two pills of sweetener and a chocolate digestive. Despite manoeuvring a not-small trolley covered with warm cups and pots of boiling water, she seemed to move with more ease than anyone else in the building. Along with the boardroom drinks cabinet and stationery cupboard, Veronica was the best thing about Dad’s work. “Would you like a biscuit?” Twice a day, mid-morning and mid-afternoon, Veronica pushed her trolley down the corridor and around the various departments serving tea, coffee and biscuits.
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