After 2 months in India, where breakfasts were (non-Krispie) rice based, and having arrived back in the land of the untamed fried morning stodge-a-thon, I found myself hankering after the latter. My depraved cravings were only assuaged the day after I’d alighted the SeaFrance ferry. I’d never even deigned to ask my European hosts, over 3 days, for anything other than a strong coffee, a pastry and a bit of limp, cooked meat, partly due to my French/German/Dutch/Polish vocabulary being painfully inadequate to fill my belly with cholesterol. Secretly I was also worried that square sausage may be a crime against humanity in those parts and I was driving far too close to The Hague to take any chances.
My good friend on the morning after my arrival in good old (potato) Blighty, had the prescience to take me for a slap up breakfast grill in deepest Surrey. This was indeed a treat for my chapati churned stomach, although my enthusiasm was somewhat attenuated when we arrived at an Italian cafe. I soon buried my apprehension when I saw that the spread was as big as a sumo wrestler’s sushi appetiser although more appealing at that time of the morning.
There was two of everything except the mushrooms and beans. My eyes, being normally bigger than my stomach, were suddenly overcome with double vision. My heart was racing at the excitement of seeing so much saturated fat as well as getting ready to pump the stuff around my genetically susceptible Scottish arteries.
To cut a Lorne sausage short, the feast was dispatched and sugary, milky coffee was ushered in to seal the deal: hunger satisfied; honour restored and stereotype reinforced. My on-off love affair with the fried breakfast was rekindled like a post-pub chip-pan fire and feeling just as hot and dangerous. She was mine and mine alone on that sunny morning in Surrey and even though my dining companion was but one metre away, we were each lost in the loneliness of our fried breakfasts and the temporary, grease-ridden joy they brought.