Robertson's

The heat haze from the fire was joining that of the sweltering day as the man added another item to the fire from his late father's detritus. Stuff left over that even the Charity shops had rejected. He opened an old cigar box and there they lay a hundred paper gollies collected from the marmalade his father ate; the only thing, and brand, Robertson's, he ever took for breakfast. A gust of wind  suddenly caught the paper tokens carrying them high in the air dispersing them far afield. The man thought it was enough his neighbors would be  complaining about the smoke. Now, there will be little mementos of bygone attitudes landing in their flower beds, on their conservatory windows, floating in their ornamental ponds. He looked down at his daughter one had landed, stuck to her dew sweat arm. A tennis player wielding a racket his black smiling face a Grand Slam winner! She looked at it, and her father with equal disdain tore off the golly turned her back walked away  to wait with her mother in the air-conditioned car.