TRULY THE BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

As you would expect, I have a soft spot for wildlife. It's on the left hand side of my bed, among the reference books and dictionaries, and speckled with the tins of pipe tobacco so essential for bachelor comfort. There are a huge number of fluffy entities there, including a hippo with a cane, a furry amphibian, a raccoon (Gunther) and his girlfriend (a charming and very feminine little lady skunk), a snarky and rambunctious spider monkey, and others.

And a turkey vulture. Who keenly wishes that I should harvest the fatty inner thighs of useless people to feed him, as he is dying of hunger.

"Why", he wishes to know, "has this not yet been done?"
Do I not understand the urgency of the matter?

I remonstrate that it's whatever o'clock in the blasted morning, the crack of dawn, bleak and early. Far too soon to start slaughtering random fellow citizens. But I might get right on it as soon as I've had my coffee.

Silently I wonder how the heck he has an appetite at an hour of the day when rational people (me, as an example) cannot even consider solid food, even if it is fresh, warm, spongy and juicy, and dripping goodness.


Breakfast is supposed to be just caffeine and a bit of nicotine, plus bad news from elsewhere read about on the internet. As well as Facebook, for the memes.

Enjoyed in an atmosphere of worshipful quiet and contemplation.

Though some of us must argue with birds.



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