In which I attempt to convey the struggle that is breakfast time.
Come with me on a journey into your imagination. Imagine, if you will, walking into a small but friendly dining room. It's fairly early, around 7:30ish, and you've just had a shower and walked downstairs.
The smell of bacon and mushrooms frying wafts from the kitchen. Some other guests are already eating, invariably something cooked.
You've eaten here before, and you know that the breakfasts are spectacularly good; the bacon is always the way you like it, the egg is always done to perfection, the mushrooms are wonderful. The sausage appears to be made of actual pork, not the bread-like stuffing you get in so many sausages.
Imagine your mouth watering as you savour the amazing nasal symphony floating from the kitchen.
Imagine having to say "no" when the nice lady that runs the guest house asks if you want any thing cooked for breakfast.
I settled for fruit and fibre and a zero fat yoghurt, if you were wondering. On the plus side I felt very virtuous, at least until I looked at the calorie and fat content on the pastie I had with my sandwiches and fruit at teatime. I suppose the run I went on just before probably used up most of the pastie calories.
