bacon: unfamiliar after years of eating the american kind (what brits call streaky), strangely thick and rubbery, like chewing ear lobe with large pores

fried eggs glistening with a lardy sheen

prunes, lurking in a melancholy black pool

small--almost shot-size--glasses of grapefruit juice, thin and sour like the gastric juices that creep up your throat after a heavy curry

fried bread


mmm mmmm, anticipating those english inn breakfasts...