My lads had hollow legs. Back in the day that meant three squareish meals and a bit of supper; biscuits, pop, beer; later a kebab, some chips and start all over again. Bleugh, I feel f'lup already.
I'd bake sometimes - perhaps not as often as I would have liked - those things that my busy mother always seemed to be making. The kitchen at home was always filled with the sugary smells of baking - because for my mother nurturing meant feeding and my brothers and I were well fed. We were pressed to yet eat another slice of cake or just one more little tart - 'all full of good things' - things which in these body conscious days are regarded as the work of the devil! I guess this urge to press food - the benefits of peace - on her not insubstantial children may be the result of growing up in fairly impoverished times and then suffering the privations of war and its aftermath. The upshot was that I spent my teenage years and the next two decades trying to become less substantial (and it's a battle I have not won yet).
We'd have sponges and butterfly buns, shortbreads and flapjack, drop scones and always mince pies at Christmas. High days and holidays meant something more extravagant - a complex Batenburg or an exotic gateau (exotic for south Warwickshire in the 60s that is...)
Rock Buns - there were always Rock Buns. I was always a bit sneery about Rock Buns. No, make that very sneery about Rock Buns; but the more I think about it they were quick, cheap and easy fuel and when you have hollow legs to fill that's not a bad thing. Sometimes one must eat one's words as well.
Still, they taste OK. Do help yourselves. Tea's in the pot.