Despite being bone weary tired, the three of us were woken by the sound of my mother’s pans clattering from the kitchen. Dad reacted to the call first, so by the time I came down he was already sitting at the head of the table, nose deep in his broadsheet. The main kitchen table was covered in pastries, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, baked beans, crumpets, tea cakes, hash browns, various jugs of juice, a huge bowl of porridge, and eggs done three different ways. On the side board, was a smaller, yet equally varied selection of breakfast delicacies. Each was under a cloche to protect it from the gluten-filled goodies next to it. My mother came through the kitchen door with a smear of flour on her face, carrying her home-made loaf to put at the center of the breakfast buffet. Instinctively, I wr
