There is a little common thread on the paternal side of my family in that my dad and his both served king and country in the Royal Navy during the respective world wars that disrupted their youth.
Not only were they both in The Andrew, but, to continue in the vernacular, they were both stokers shovelling coal in the one case and operating valves (or whatever controlled the oil flow) in the other.
So how am I following down this path, bearing in mind that unlike my relatives who did this stuff in their teens and twenties I am in my sixties? No I haven’t attempted to join the Navy, but I do seem to have become a stoker. In my case I am not feeding the boiler of an ocean greyhound, but have something that does seem just as voracious, especially in the mornings when several helpings have to be delivered to her gaping maw.
Yes, my task is to shovel as much cat food as fast as it can be consumed to the empty pitcher that is my Tilly, seen here hoovering up the contents of her dish at a rate that would make the Dyson factory folks down the road green with envy. It may not be as onerous or as dangerous as the stoking that my predecessors coped with, but that cat can certainly make her point when she wants food.
The Voice of the Bloke at the Back 