Poor Little Breakfast

YESTERDAY, MY KITCHEN:
As breakfasts on Sundays go, mine usually wouldn’t make the pageant. It would probably be beaten up backstage by the other, bigger, pageant-worthy breakfasts. They’d throw its cup of tea all over its measly slice of toast and shout: You suck Morné’s Sunday breakfast. You really do. FAG!

And I’d be inclined to agree with the bully breakfasts. Compared to what I usually have during the week, my Sunday breakfasts just don’t match up. They’re too little, finish too quickly and generally leave me stalking everything in the fridge containing the words ‘chocolate’, ‘fried’, ‘cheese’ and ‘goes well with mayonnaise’. The culprit with the magic marker behind the latter is yet to be found…

But yesterday, before stumbling out of bed, I made a conscious decision to go big. I was gonna fry, beat, sauté and boil my breakfast into first place in that pageant. Flowers were gonna be thrown at it and, backstage, instead of getting beat up, other breakfasts would offer it sexual favours. Yes, the plan was big and my enthusiasm even bigger.

But alas, as I opened my fridge, it too looked in desperate need of my well-planned, hearty breakfast. There amongst the leftovers, I found chocolate, fried onions, a block of cheese and mayo. My big breakfast would have to wait until the stores were hit. So I had my toast and tea and hoped my Sunday breakfast stayed well away from the bathrooms at the pageant.