As promised earlier, I’m going to move on to describe breakfast on Sunday morning, even though it is currently Tuesday. Such is the magic of blogging.

It was a budget hotel, and one of the ways they appear to keep costs under control is by economising on bricks and mortar. As I walked along the corridor I mused on this as my shoulders appeared to brush the walls. Admittedly, I’ve expanded a bit over the years, but they do seem to have skimped  on width.

The breakfast room was similarly snug and called for some creative slalom movements to make my way between tables. I didn’t hit anything on the way to the table, though I did notice several people blanching as I insinuated myself through a number of unfeasibly small gaps.

Now I know what the elephant in the room feels like.

A few minutes with the menu resulted in an order for sausage, bacon, black pudding, eggs, bubble and squeak, hash browns, mushrooms, tomatoes and beans. Note that we emphasised the healthy vegetable aspects of the meal. Generally the quality was good, though the bubble and squeak did taste more like herby potatoes than proper bubble and squeak.

All was good until the neighbours arrived. The thin edge of the wedge arrived in the form of two small squeaky girls. I’m not in favour of small children at breakfast because (a) they are too enthusiastic and (b) it’s easy to offend with jokes about cannibalism.

They acted as pathfinders  mess for a miserable old crone who arrived moments later and immediately began ordering them around, sending them for fruit juice and toast and various other things. She did all this in a loud voice and without the use of the word “please”. She did say “thank you” a couple of times, but not often.

Then the parents arrived. They didn’t make much of an impression, being mere conversational targets for the garrulous harridan. I’m being very unpleasant here, but if you mess with my planned relaxing Sunday breakfast you can’t expect me to shower you with compliments.

She wanted vinegar with her breakfast. I’m not sure why, unless she wanted to top up her personality. She then told the unfortunate server that she hadn’t brought any mustard. Well, she wouldn’t, seeing as she hadn’t been asked for any. I’ve noticed this before – people not bringing things you haven’t asked for. It’s one of those facets of modern life that sometimes puzzle me. Surely if your server was able to read minds they would be serving at the top level with Reginald Jeeves and Sebastian Beach. Either that or winning prizes for their mind-reading act on Britain’s Got Talent.

I’ll not labour the point, as I’m coming perilously close to using the words virago and termagant and exploring a whole new world of misogyny, which will never do. I will, however, mention that they demanded to have their pain-au-chocolat warmed.

There is a whole new rant waiting on the subject of pain-au-chocolat, the warming thereof and the modern fashion for foreign patisserie.

The world, I feel, was a better place when toast was the only baked product available for breakfast.

This opinion will not be a surprise to regular readers.