psycho breakfast

 Walk diagonally across the old market street, heading for the Mareis baker shop. It is open on Sundays, and the idea is to get some bread rolls for breakfast. In the shop there is an alarmingly thin man who is buying a cup of coffee. He seems quite uncoordinated in his actions, he mumbles. It could be that he has an alcohol problem, his appearance and demeanour qualify that supposition.

Wait until he has his coffee and has gone on, steering roughly for the exit to the shop. He sees the glass door all right, and steps aside to exit via the open part of these doors.

Ask the saleswoman for six rolls, she asks whether they should be all the same or mixed. Say that mixed would be fine, and she shows me a basket with six different types of bread roll in it , with grain on the outside, without such extra, brown, and white. Tell her that that would be fine, and get three croissants too.

Pay the bill, accidentally including a token coin from a French car wash that has been in the wallet since last summer. When that confusion has been cleared, take up the two bags and walk back home. This is one advantage of living in the centre of town, all services are nearby, and can be reached on foot.

At home, lay a breakfast table, with some jam and the butter dish and peanut butter and such like. Put three breakfast boards on the table as well. And saucers for coffee cups.

The son is awake, he looks doubtful, then he say that there is a cake in the refrigerator. Tell him that the cake will do nicely this afternoon.

Then, when the coffee is made, the whole threesome of the family sit down to have breakfast. The cat does not really understand, this is a new experience for this creature with a short memory. She dashes about playing with things that are on the floor.

But the son has calmed down, his teenage riotousness is quietened by a mouthful of buttered roll. Or croissant.