I walked into the kitchen to find something for breakfast. The closer I approached the fridge, the quicker caution and reason was thrown to the wind. So, what was for breakfast? Perhaps a fresh, creamy non-fat blueberry yogurt? A few pancakes with a drizzle of maple syrup and a small teasing of Country Crock spread? Maybe some warm toast smothered with blackberry jam and a glass of cold, fresh orange juice?
No.
Heapings of leftover homemade trifle still in the bowl, with a big spoon.
I can’t be accused of being a bad example either. We offered Ian a bowlful a few hours after dinner last night. His eyes were huge and I could hear him getting fatter as we ran through a few of the key ingredients: custard, jell-o and fresh cream.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered, after taking a bite.
He’s no son of mine!
a Brit different 