A few columns ago I had a good old moan about butchers, supermarkets and the price of the local meat on the shelves in general.

I also complained about, amongst other things, the gradual disappearance of tasty off-cuts and succulent extremities such as oxtails and pigs trotters that have vanished without trace.

Now I’m quite used to bumping into people that I meet when I’m out and about on the flying scooter.

People who pass a kind word or the like about the column and, likewise, it is not unusual for someone to give me a quick phone call with a comment or a compliment, and I thank you all.

But what is unusual is to answer the phone and be asked if I would like some pig’s trotters.

Now normally if you receive ’one of those calls’, it will be someone who would be absolutely delighted to upgrade your computer free of charge if you can help him to invest his money in your bank. Or that other perennial, the caller who would be doing you a huge favour if you changed your gas supplier to the one that he represents.

Anyway, the phone rang, I picked it up and this voice said that he had read the column and if I really would like some trotters, then some trotters I would have.

Well the next day, I went into town to get my magazine, ’The Pork Butcher Monthly’ from the newsagent, and when I got home, Brown Eyes said that a man had called and left me a bagful of pig’s feet.

I have no name or phone number, but I was very grateful and very hungry. Thank you.

I remember the days when we had butcher’s shops by the dozen.

I won’t bore you with lists of names, as I’m sure that every family had its favourite.

What small amount of meat that we could afford, we would buy from Mr Dunbar in Circular Road. I remember that they always went by the title of ’Family Butcher’. I didn’t think for one minute that they actually did butcher families, but I would keep one careful eye on Mr Dunbar when he was sharpening his knives.

If it was a ’meat day’ one of my first jobs before school would be a trip on the push bike into Douglas for the meat run.

I think that it was because I looked skinny and hungry, and could put on the sad face to get the sympathy vote.

Who knows if it worked, all I knew was that come rain or shine, on meat day, I was at the butcher’s in Circular Road at eight o’clock in the morning.

Mother’s menu ran its regular pattern each week. We always had roast beef on Sunday, so on Saturday morning off I would go for the usual. ’A piece of beef about four shillings, and Mother said can she please have a lump of dripping.’

In my mind, I can still see that shop.

Meat hanging on hooks, sharp knives, a trap door behind the counter, usually left open, and the smell of the fresh sawdust on the floor.

Then off home with my shopping bag hanging on the handlebars.

A piece of beef, a lump of dripping, a sausage for me, and a bone for the dog. Happy days.

But how things change. The Mr Dunbars of a lifetime ago would buy a side of beef, or a whole lamb, or a pig.

He would divide the carcase into the individual cuts that we all knew and recognised.

Some were expensive, some were cheap, but you had a choice, and the butcher knew his customers.

If young Cowin had been given four shillings to spend, my mother knew that she would get good value.

For the benefit of the younger reader, four shillings in today’s money is 20p.

So anyway, just what has happened to all of the parts of the animal that we used to enjoy? Maybe Mr Dunbar, family butcher from past life will let me know.