So this morning I was moaning, as I often do, about being hungry. It goes like this: I’m sitting up in bed drinking tea and listening to the radio. Or more usually trying to listen to the radio through Mark’s ranting about the news. This particular morning I was following the coverage of Sadiq Kahn’s very welcome election to the post of London Mayor and thinking a) how good it was to have a London mayor and b) how it would give the lie to all sorts of Islamophobia to have a Muslim mayor. It almost neutralises the highly unwelcome news, the almost unbelievable news, that the Republican party have had the idiocy to select Trump for the nomination. The guy is a joke, but a very bad one – a worse one, in many ways, than Reagan; and I remember only too well what that was like…
Sheer brilliance. But the Trump story is beyond satire: I simply don’t know what we do with it. I mean, it comes to something when even the Tory Prime Minister insults the Republican nominee.
But onwards and upwards. As I said, this morning I was suffering the usual breakfast dialogue which goes like this:
But I can’t have breakfast yet. First I have to get up, then have a wash, put on some clothes, do my yoga and boil an egg.
I can’t be bothered. I’ll stay in bed for a while.
But I’m hungry….
It goes round and round like the song ‘There’s a Hole in my Bucket’ which I used to sing as a child.
I learned it from my Dad, who was a fund of songs – not religious ones as you might expect, but popular tunes like ‘Clementine’.
Anyway, I eventually heaved my reluctant brain out of bed, washed its front fascia and slung on some clothes. I was about to unroll my yoga mat when OH popped his head round the door. ‘Your breakfast’s nearly ready,’ he said.
He’d made me breakfast as a surprise. ‘If I’d known you were going to surprise me I wouldn’t have got up,’ I said.
It was sweet of him though…
And the egg was perfect.