My Sunday

When we first met we weren’t veggie. Although neither of us enjoyed meaty meals like steaks we did eat burgers, mince and sausages etc.  Opposite where we lived on Shaftesbury Avenue was a McDonalds, and although it is a place I wouldn’t  set foot in these days, except to use the loos perhaps, we used to enjoy their breakfast on a Sunday morning.

Whoever was awake first had the honour of throwing on something, usually jogging bottoms and a jumper, and dashing across the road for the McDonalds special breakfast – hash brown, scrambled egg, meat patty, pancakes and something they called a  Mcmuffin, all served in a polystyrene tray with a nice cup of tea to go with it. Our bed was near a wall so more often than not I could encourage (push?) Tony out of bed to do the Sunday breakfast dash.

One Sunday morning Tony arrived back slightly breathless from dashing back across the road and up three flights of stairs. “You should see the new guy over there,” he teased.

“Yeah right, just want to make me jealous and go next week.” I sat up in bed, propping up the pillows.

“No seriously, we’ll pop in lunchtime, just for a tea or something. You’ll see.” Tony suggested.”They were really busy too, and today I got you something slightly different, but something you’ll really like.”

“Like?” I asked.

“You’re going to have to trust me. Close your eyes and I’ll feed it to you.” he said smiling.

“Yeah, I know what you’re up to.” I laughed.

“Too bloody right,” Tony laughed too and shoved his jogging bottoms to the floor.

“Golly, he must have been nice,” I said reaching out.

“Move over. I’ll micro that later” he nodded at the breakfast trays that he’d put on the chest of drawers and slipped into bed beside me.

19-sunday-breakfast

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