Sat at the table; the soft spring air drifting calmly through the open doorway into the sensibly decorated kitchen, warming the face, lifting the music so. The smells of the bread toasting gently, the butter hot on the knife, the tidy eloquent way you spread the Rasberry jam on your crumpet after the silky caramel tea pours from that most quaint of teapots. The sunlight creaks through the small window, then like a tipped honey pot, it pours its golden pleasure over the tabletop, and over your face.
It appears to me that breakfast is the last bastion of civilisation. The tea, the toast, the butter, the jam, the newspaper, the coffee, the orange juice, the selection of cereals and mueslis. Everything is white and beautiful, at the breakfast table - in whatever form that might take place. There is a refreshing delight in breakfasting with that one special person whom you love most precociously- for we are all young at the breakfast table.
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