Have some toast instead

If truth be told, I’ve been in a bit of a funk recently. It’s been difficult to find joy in most aspects of my day-to-day life. Everything just seems dull and repetitive and stale. I have, however, found solace in one (always reliable) thing. It’s not especially profound, but it satisfies me beyond belief.


I fucking love breakfast.

I’m fairly sure I could write an entire thesis on breakfast and it’s majesty. It is without question, the best meal of the day and if I had the inclination, I would open a restaurant that served only breakfast related items, so that folk far and wide could have breakfast at any time of day.

It saddens me that a meal so beautiful is basically restricted to the morning time. Yeah, sure, there are things like “brunch” – but that doesn’t COUNT. I often wonder whether I should just only eat breakfast instead of all the other rubbish meals, but that might dull the wonder of the brekkie for me.

Just THINK of all the variety that breakfast has! I just started typing a list of all the wonderful breakfast items available to chow down on and it went on for so long that it basically is ridiculous. Instead, I will treat my 2 readers to a countdown my top 5 ever breakfasts over the next few posts. It’ll be thrilling, I’m sure.

5) Age 11. A hotel somewhere in Paris.

Holidaying with my parents and younger brother, I’d never stayed in a hotel before, but I’d already established myself as a breakfast FAN. In fact, according to my baby book, it was one of the first words I ever uttered. Preparing for a full day of fun at Disneyland, my folks bring us down to the dining room for the breakfast buffet.

Oh my, what a buffet it was.

There were three wagons full of delicious treats which you could help yourself to. One full of ice, in which nestled hundreds of yogurts and compotes, jugs of milk and juice and a whole spread of cheese and cold meats. Another housed everything you might want for a cooked breakfast. The third was laden down with baked goods and cereals, in true inimitable French style. It was a thing of beauty. The concept of a buffet was new to me, so I selected a few choice items, before being reminded I could have whatever I wanted.

So I unleashed hell.

I began with cereal, moved swiftly on the yogurts and then crammed my face full of hot bacon and eggs and crunchy toast. My hands dived into the huge baskets of pastries before returning to the yogurt wagon, cradling several pots of stewed apple. I inhaled those croissants like buttery air.

I was a girl possessed.

I barely remember chewing.

I ignored my parents warnings of something about my eyes being bigger than my belly. (Which is a phrase I fucking hate, because it doesn’t make sense and in my case has never been true. I’M FAT.) My younger brother marvelled at my iron stomach. I longed for the ability to unhinge my jaws and just tip platefuls of cheese down my neck. I ate so much because I feared, deep down, I wouldn’t never experience this utter bloody joy ever again.

In retrospect, it was an absolute fucking miracle I didn’t throw up on Space Mountain.


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