Olympic Breakfast

I have just written a post and deleted it. It has, so far, been that sort of morning. Julia is unhappy with my many failures as a husband, the weather is miserable and I can’t get a grip on writing a short post. What more can go wrong?

At the moment that is a genuine question, rather than a rhetorical one. Give it an hour or so and I’m sure I will have some answers for you.

Some subjects just seem to keep coming round in domestic arguments. I am, I admit, completely unable to read Julia’s mind. I’ve never been able to do it, and have never been able to learn how to do it. If she is, for instance, lying in bed and showing every appearance of being happy and relaxed on a Sunday morning, does this mean she is happy and relaxed and intending to have a lie in. I thought so. However, it seems she was merely waiting, like a coiled spring, to leap into action and devour the substantial cooked breakfast that I had no clue I was supposed to prepare.

I don’t mind cooking breakfast, but I only tend to do it when I know we are ready to eat. It seems a waste of effort to make a breakfast that will then cool and congeal as the intended consumer snores gently upstairs.

Even if I had cooked it, I would have been wrong. I’m thinking of doing something meat free. It’s healthier, better for our weight and, more important, it cuts out some of that carcinogenic cured meat we keep hearing about (or bacon as we used to call it). We all know that in a perfect world I would consume huge fried breakfasts, but as I approach my three score years and ten with a variety of ailments and a large amount of extra weight, compromises must be made. One is that we can’t eat bacon all the time. It’s better for us, and it’s better for the pigs.

Breakfast at Harvester