I have reached a point of crisis in my early morning routine. Before elaborating, allow me first to define my terms.
By “early”, I mean about 9am. By “crisis”, I mean a matter of minor importance in the great scheme of things (and even in the rubbish scheme of things). And by “routine” I refer to several activities, as the term infers, but intend this week’s lecture to concern only one of these.
Certainly, I don’t refer to showering, which I delay till the afternoon. Ditto teeth brushing. The busy executive has no time for such frivolities first thing in the morning. Nor do I refer to exercises. I do a very small amount of these in the morning and, thankfully, they do not require me to move.
I do breathing and relaxation exercises. They don’t work. Usually, within the hour, I am cursing the gods and collapsing to the floor in a tear-stained heap, crying “Why? Why?” This might be occasional by a trivial happenstance such as discovering I’ve run out of pumpkin seeds.
Which terrible tragedy brings me to my actual subject: I speak, madam, of breakfast. Feel free to make notes as I brief you as follows. For many years now, I have eaten the same breakfast. Perhaps I should rephrase that. I am not regurgitating and eating again the exact same meal.
No, I mean the same substance of meal, to wit: oats, water, badger’s milk, seeds (sunflower or the aforementioned pumpkin), raisins, berries and, if I am feeling wicked, honey.
I’ll just read these ingredients back. Hell’s teeth. Not badger’s milk. Coconut milk. Do you also confuse badgers with coconuts? In my case, it stems from that time I won a badger at the fair.
Be that as it may, my breakfast routine now stands disturbed. It stems from my periodic stays at Swanky Towers, where I am employed from time to time to wait upon two cats. Whilst there, on a matter of principle, I consume as much of the owners’ food and drink as I can.
This involves eating Cedric’s breakfast cereal. It’s a fine treat for a plain man. I care not not for the calorific horror stories carried periodically in the popular prints. Indeed, my own porridge dish probably contains more than my day’s allowance and may be why I can hardly face it some mornings. It is, to put it mildly, somewhat heavy.
But these packet cereals are light and sweet. They gladden the heart, and they don’t need cooking. During my stays at ST, the cats would flee in terror as I bounded down the palatial staircase in the morning shouting “Choco rice!”, or “Cheerios!” or, if feeling a need for excess, “Honey Monster Puffs!”
Partly, it’s their association with childhood that delights. Mainly, I think my body craves them, whereas it fears the porridge. Now that I’m back among the downtrodden masses in the suburbs, I am considering replacing the porridge with cereals.
This will require great cogitation. So, I will extend my breathing and relaxation exercises to 40 seconds. Shortly afterwards, I will fall tearfully to my knees in the kitchen, a packet of Shreddies in one hand, some uncooked oats in the others, as I shout: “Why? Why? Why is life never simple?”
