Charlotte took the plate in front of me, dished up at the stove and placed it down in front of me again. I had just run 11 miles and I would struggle to eat but I kept quiet instead.
“Thank you,” I said automatically. My plate consisted of my normal Thursday breakfast, two slices of unbuttered toast, two eggs, four rashers of bacon and three slices of fried tomatoes. It was almost perfect and then she made it perfect. She filled my glass with orange juice and sat down opposite me.
Her plate had a slice of toast, one egg and one rasher of bacon, no tomato. “Is that all you’re having?”
She looked down at her plate. “I’m not really that hungry.” I watched as she smeared butter on her toast and I shuddered. The idea of butter on bread was an odd one for me.
We finished eating in silence an
