Breakfast started calmly enough. I’d risen after solid sleep to snorkel the welcoming bodice of Sunday afternoon. I’d splashed links of pig meat into steaming sizzle, smirking at the pock sting leaping tics of lard. In a pot I’d placed a ham for lunch, set it to boil in hearty flame broiled majesty, what meat!
A second pan then, fried bread it’s happy game. Another pot for eggs, a third for kippers in a tin (I’ve learned a trick to boil em in).
Avast, another pan, for breckies but a puny snack, that lacks the sticky puke of sausage black. A problem then, each flame is occupied, and hunger like a thrashing asp is in me grub. Aha thinks I, and grill grows hot and in goes pan, take that! And all is frying and meat punge, and ready plate, knife, fork and spoon (never to the spork could I commit), and dance then over to me feed. Toss in slo mo, rise the eggy bread and catch him pan, good lad!
But then me turn and Tracy’s in the room, red face and shaky shake, and crying and the meat goes in the bin, and out the flames go one by one, and me shouts and she shouts, and me slap slappy at her meaty maw and think of feed on face, but still the pung of burny pig!
’Wait’ she say, ’the idiot’ and ’where’s it coming from?’, and ’not the cat!’, and I is sad but happy too and think of wee puss, course not dead, she silly open grill and out pour black, and handle slippey red, and screaming Tracy hands all bony wet. Punchline.