Saturday morning, 6.30am, cup of Earl Grey before taking the parents to St Pancras. They are off to choral school in the south of France for a week, leaving the cat and I to our own devices.
Saturday morning, 8am, the fridge has bacon but there is no bread.
8.30am, I pick myself up from the table to drive to Waitrose and buy a loaf of sourdough. It’s no St John, but it’s a whole lot closer.
9am, arrive home to find the bacon has gone. There were two packages from the butcher in the fridge, one with steak, one with bacon. Only the steak remains. Nobody else is here (well, only the cat - it’s true, he has a penchant for licking chorizo in the dead of night, but surely he wouldn’t steal the bacon). Where on earth is the bacon?
9.15am, check the boot of the car as a last resort. Obviously it isn’t there.
9.20am, only now do I look in the bread bin to find two croissants and a packet of bacon. Thank goodness.
9.40am, bacon, toast, poached egg.
I’d argue it was a breakfast well deserved.
