I feel so very less then energized by the propect of solitary ceral or a self-fried egg that they already tell me is no good for me. I dream of calling a cab, showing the driver the above picture, and instructing him to take me there with all possible acceleration, not sparing the horsepower. And the driver will of course imediately comply and speed me to this wonderous place where I will breakfast on smoked salmon, caviar, and perfect sweet rolls; where I’ll drink mimosas and superior coffee, and flirt with beautiful women in low cut dresses who will swiftly adore me. After that I will be ready for any work of genius that might present itself through the remainder of the day.
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The secret words are Dream and On
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3 comments:
That's a pretty good description of my usual Sunday morning. You only missed out the two hour bath and the Sunday Times crossword.
please please please pick me up on the way!
You think they can throw in a foot rub and manicure?
My Sunday usually consists of laundry and fretting about all the things I want to do and haven't done, because I am too busy picking up cat puke and loading laundry.
Looks like the breakfast buffet at a Barcelona Hotel where we spent our honeymoon. While Mrs SFM made do with a bowl of cereal, I made the most of the breads, cheeses, meats (hot and cold), eggs (prepared all ways), cakes, flans and choclate - all washed down with a selection of beers and wines. Certainly sets a chap up for the day!
(N.B. Yesterday's brekkie was a bit less opulent - cheese on toast followed by strong black coffee with a shot of rum, a small spliff and the papers)
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