Breakfasts in Bed.

I

A shaky blue tray that rattles up the stairs. Tea slops over the cup’s brim and milk breaches its bowl like white waves against a ship’s bow. Roundabout, Rice Krispies lie beached, and the felt-tip blurs on the clumsily-folded birthday card.

II

Christmas morning (can you call it morning if the sun’s not up yet?). Fumble in the dark for the stocking. It’s full to the brim; Santa’s been! Dump it on the bed and feel crestfallen when the oranges are not of the Terry’s variety. Oh well, peel a clementine and play ball-in-a-cup til 6am (acceptable time to wake parents.)

III

Too sick to go to school, Mum. Stay in bed, I’ll bring you a honey and lemon drink. Gee thanks. Don’t watch TV whilst I’m at work! Stay in bed! Yes Mummy, whatever you say. Bye! Even before the honey and lemon gets cold, I’m downstairs eating Weetos and watching Judge Judy.

IV

Pull self from covers, head reeling. Shuffle downstairs to kitchen. Flick the kettle on. Find bread; put in toaster. Wait. Too late. Swear and scrape burnt bits with knife. Use said knife to butter toast. Leave big grooves in the butter with black crumbs in their wake. Apathy. Stick same knife in Marmite (god it’s all over your fingers it stinks) and spread it over the melted butter. Put toast on way too small a plate. Trudge back up the stairs like they’re Everest. Get back into bed. Swear again because you forgot to make the tea. Apathy. Eat toast. Feel better, but still atrocious.

V

Open eyes a crack. What happened last night? Why am I naked?  Jesus, I’m in a world of pain. Drink stale glass of water on bedside table. What’s that smell? It’s coming from that box on the floor… Oh hello, cold pizza! How foresightful! I am a drunken genius.

VI

He comes in, wearing my pyjama bottoms and a huge grin, a plate in one hand and a glass in the other. Plonks the first on my lap and the second on the Oxford Hachette. Eggs benedict, he says. You told me you loved it. And I do. The yolk spills out over the muffin; it tastes like sunshine. Like tenderness.

VII

He sits opposite me, cross-legged in boxers. He spreads kitchen towel on his duvet like a picnic blanket, and breaks a baguette in two, then splits it open. Unsalted butter, and confiture aux fraises his mother made. It’s runny, wild strawberries floating in a crimson syrup, vibrant on the silver spoon. It tastes as strawberries should; not like Calpol, or pink Nesquik powder, or Neapolitan. The coffee’s inky black and bitter and his cigarette smoke weaves around us like morning mist. Buttery sunlight streams through the shutters and sets it glowing.