Thingamabob (I won’t use her proper name for fear of being accused of advertising) had a lovely first name until a business company used the word as a brand of breakfast cereal. Her parents had made up the name because they liked the way it sounded. After the branding of the breakfast cereal, Thingamabob didn’t stand a chance. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry would crack a joke about breakfast cereal. All jokes were corny. Thingamabob was sad. She was only fifteen years old. It is sad to see a fifteen-year old sad.
Thingamabob wrote a letter to the breakfast cereal company explaining how they had ruined her lovely name. She received a rude reply from a Ms Pamela Draper, the Company Director: “Go jump in the lake you silly girl.” Thingamabob never forgot (nor forgave) the harsh response.
It just so happened, not too many years into the future, that Thingamabob was the publicity director of a large toilet paper manufacturing company. They needed a new name for a product. The jingle was catchy and accompanied by a full orchestra:
When in need of toilet paper Wipe your bum with Pamela Draper.
(For starters – a footnote: apparently not every version of English carries the same insinuations for words and phrases used in this story so things could be relatively meaningless to a goodly number of readers??)
All I did at breakfast was to ask Freda if she wanted toast or crumpet.
“I want crumpet. What do you want?”
She took offence.
By crumpet I meant the cake with a soft, porous texture, made from a yeast mixture cooked on a griddle and eaten toasted and buttered. She took it to infer that by crumpet I meant her to be an object of sexual desire.
“Look,” I said trying to explain. “I was trying to be kind and you took it the wrong way. I wasn’t trying to butter you up.”
“There you go again,” expostulated Freda. “Can’t you treat me as a human being? Covering me in butter and devouring me like some sort of cheap slice.”
“It’s toast then,” I said. “How would you like your eggs done?”
“Oh for goodness sake, I should never have stayed the night. To discuss my ovaries first thing in the morning is beyond belief. I’m leaving. I’m tired of your insinuations.”
She left. The moral of this tale is never have the editor of a dictionary stay over for breakfast.
It was breakfast. Gordon and Jillian always sat at a coffee bench in the kitchen and stared vacantly at their coffees until they woke up properly. It was a ritual. Occasionally something was said, such as “Did you see on TV where the president has done this or the vice-president has not done that?”
Today was different. Jillian had gone out and purchased a morning paper; something they never did. She sat looking not at her coffee but at the obituaries.
It had been two days now. She still couldn’t believe it.
Goodness, exclaimed Leith gazing at the calendar on his dining room wall, it’s March 20 already. I thought it was only Thursday.
He had spent all week, days and a good part of the nights, at the hospital. This was his first breakfast at home since that Monday. He was dog tired, and now there was so much to arrange; so many people to contact and so many questions to answer. Being the weekend made it doubly worse because people were away and much harder to contact.
Had his wife, Antonia, been there things would have been easier. She could do half the work. But goodness me! How silly of him! She was gone! Gone forever…
Leith forced himself to eat a piece of toast. The butter in the fridge was rock solid. He went without and spread a bit of apricot jam on the slice. It was horrible and cold. He had better face the task at hand.
It was tedious being a plumber. How three water mains burst at the hospital all in one week was a mystery.
Children! Children! Continue to eat you breakfast but listen while I’m talking.
Johnny Sunderland! Get back to your place and eat you cornflakes and stop messing around.
As you know, this institution is called an orphanage although not everyone here is an orphan. Some of you have parents but you’ve ended up here for different reasons. Some of your parents are on drugs; some of you are here because your parents didn’t like you; some of you are here simply because your parents are too sick to take proper care of you.
That is the case for Johnny Sunderland. His mother was dying of cancer so Johnny came here to be cared for properly. Johnny Sunderland! Would you sit down and stop messing around. Listen, because this announcement concerns you.
I want you to be particularly nice to Johnny today because his mother died last night. Johnny Sunderland, sit down! I will see you in my office after you’ve finished breakfast.
How long the shadows fall
this breakfast time. How tall in height,
(as if in evening light)
the fence posts stand, as might night guards,
freezing in sun’s weak shards.
A bitter morning. Hardened ice.
Desolate wind with vice
-like grip, ready to slice the heart.
For me to light the fire
is to admit that you’re not here.
The early morning’s cheer-
ful warmth that only yesterday
you lit, your final day,
before the Fates held sway and snipped
your thread of life, and clipped
forever what bound you to me.
How long the shadows fall
this first breakfast time.
Katrina, sometimes called Kitty and sometimes Kit depending on… on… absolutely nothing, was enthusiastically into yoga. It was yoga for breakfast, lunch and dinner – as the saying goes. To all intents and purposes it could be said that she was addicted to it. An obsession!
Personally I can’t stand the stuff. If anyone offered me yoga for breakfast I’d say, no thanks just a slice of toast and a coffee will do me fine.
Una and Rory had been married for fifty-two years. For fifty-two years Rory had devoured a boiled egg for breakfast. One egg and a slice of toast. Una made it for him every morning.
Rory was a little fussy; the egg had to be dark brown. Brown eggs were healthy. White eggs were feeble and lacked vitamins and health. A daily dark brown egg it had to be. Brown eggs came from healthy, robust chickens.
“It’s the brown eggs what done it,” said Rory on his eightieth birthday. Which just goes to show that Una’s secret of boiling a white egg in tea was good for the health.
Merran loved her little Shih Tzu. Throughout her life she had always had a little dog, but Lan Dong was her favourite canine of all time. Merran always stood in her kitchen to have her breakfast. It was usually just a slice of toast with butter and honey, always made meticulously after she had taken her heart pills and downed a large glass of water. If she dropped some toast crumbs on the kitchen floor, Lan Dong would instantly snaffle them up.
“You’re a regular little vacuum cleaner,” Merran would say. “Who needs a broom when Lan Dong is about?”
Anyway, on this particular day, as she was taking her medication, Merran accidently dropped her open bottle of heart pills.