BUSH-HAIRED theologians, historians and [...].

Byline: DAVID CHARTERS

B USH-HAIRED theologians, historians and philosophers, their eyed dimmed by midnight meditations, are agreed on one thing - the first dinner enjoyed together by Adam and Eve in Paradise was a culinary triumph.

"That were reet good, lass," said Adam, who, a little unexpectedly, spoke in a charming brogue, which the keen ear of today would associate with industrial Wigan. He released a light belch of appreciation and then, with an altar-white napkin, dabbed a morsel of apple pie from his full and expectant lips, before advancing on Eve, who rose slowly on her perfectly sculpted size-four feet and swayed teasingly in a loose grass-skirt.

"Now to the main business of the evening," said Adam, reaching out with his right hand. At that moment, a butterfly of many colours opened her fragile wings and the watching sun slid behind the trees, casting a strange glow across the whole garden, hushing the birds. Darkness fell.

From nowhere, they giggling,

Now, down the centuries, speculation about what happened next has tingled the blood and bristled the whiskers, exciting much controversy among those great thinkers. What did Adam mean by the main business of the evening? My own guess is that he was referring to one of the unyielding miseries of life - washing up. Being a practical sort of bloke, he was eager to arm-carrthe crockery down to the stream before the gravy congealed in the pan.

"You wash, I'll dry," said Eve, handing him the brush, thus starting a division of labour accepted by husbands to this very day. For although we are not as distinct as, for example, the sloth and the gazelle, human males and females do in many ways operate as different species, while remaining irresistibly attracted to each other.

I first noticed this when I was a Red Indian brave riding my tricycle to the crazy slopes of the ambush hills on the local common, where spears grew in clumps of fern and the juice of plump blackberries made terrifying war paint. If you sit there now on the sandstone crest in the quiet of night, you can still hear the distant whoops of battle trembling the leaves. They are with us forever. And you can see again, the pigtailed girls tying handkerchiefs to the grazed knees of the wounded fighters. But later those nurses of the long grass became the cunning angels of the dance floor. Pimpled boys longed to hold the healing hands that once cleaned the grit from their cuts and bruises.

In the romantic memory, it was always foggy on Saturday night, dance night - and the orange street lamps seemed to float in the veiled air, dangling from a sullen sky, one after the other in measured parade, glowing bodiless, all the way to the church hall. There you could hear the rub of shining shoes on the pavements, where the boys waited. Then, from nowhere, they came giggling, arm-in-arm and freshly soaped. In a clipping of heels, they swished straight past, up the crunching gravel and into the hall, where they headed straight for the smiling mirrors of the ladies' room to gossip and apply their secret lipstick. On the stage, the curate was chatting to members of the group, who were checking their amplifiers and microphones. "One two, one two," they repeated into the foaming microphone heads.

came in-arm "Here they come," a keen boy said, as the girls in pairs stepped nervously across the floor, trying to look cool. "Don't fancy yours," said the good-looking dude in the leather jacket, who anticipated, usually correctly, that soon he would be dancing with the prettiest girl. The prettiest girl also anticipated, usually correctly, that she would be dancing with him. There were rules to be obeyed in the courtship rituals of young hearts. I am sure that is still so. A couple of weeks back, our 13-year-old son went to his first disco.

"Do you think he will be all right," said my wife, as her lovely turquoise eyes gazed at his empty place at the dinner table. "Everything happens so fast these days."

"Yes," I said. "He'll be fine. It's been the way of the world since Adam and Eve. By the way, whose turn is it to do the washing up?

"Yours," said my wife.

"Anyway, vegetable soup's easy - unlike the sauce from spare ribs. That really needs some hard scrubbing. Of course, our boy loves spare ribs. They're his favourite." LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.ukFrom nowhere, they came giggling, arm-in-arm