A fresh morning brought with it an absence of pain and suffering, and I found I was famished after a marathon fourteen hours of sleep. Chamreun was, as usual, absent from the house, and I raided the fridge for food. Thankfully Chamreun had respected my Western taste buds last time he was shopping so I had choices that went beyond fruit, rice, or an omelette. Grabbing some bacon and sausages I fired up the frying pan and drained half a litre of orange juice. Soon the kitchen was filled with what must surely be the most exquisite smell in the world: frying bacon. I threw in a couple of eggs to finish and popped some bread in the toaster. A breakfast fit for a king, or at least a starving Londoner.
Cooking complete, I switched on the TV and channel hopped through the endless hell of Khmer so
