Probably like many of his generation, Dad was someone who could rhapsodise about things which appeared basic necessities to us. So thinking about our (fairly packed) house in Broad Oak Lane as a "centrally heated phonebox" gave him real pleasure. Another phrase which brought him similar joy was "Porridge, piping hot with cream on", which he must've picked up from reading to us from a Ladybird book, Lost at The Fair, which we had around the house. When Dad used the phrase he gave it the same kind of dreamlike quality as the workhouse boys singing "Food, Glorious Food" in Lionel Bart's Oliver.