Routine

I’ve used these pages in the past to foment some ill-conceived drivel about routine and its insidious corruption of our lives. This morning I realised that, when I’m staying away from home, I slip into one that fits like a glove; it’s called breakfast.

The time at which this routine takes place varies according to my work schedule so it is not like some rituals I’ve come across, such as not having a cup of tea because it’s not four-o-clock yet.

When working in London I stay at a comfortable hotel on the outskirts, in Essex. I arrive at the dining room and I’m shown to a table – I don’t mind where they put me but they know I need to be on my own; breakfast is not a companionable meal of the day with strangers. I position my copy of the ‘Times’ to the left of the neat, white, linen napkin and its set of three utensils. Then I head for the cereals, emptying a packet of Kellogg’s Special K into a white china bowl, adding semi-skimmed milk and then collecting a glass of orange juice.

I return to the table, spread the pristine napkin across my lap and read the front page of the paper while slurping the cereal and quaffing the juice. A waitress arrives with coffee. I pour a cup.

By the end of page three, I’m ready for the next stage. Off to the buffet, collect a white china plate and then approach the covered, chrome receptacles. Here the ritual can suffer a slight set back as they’re not always in the same order and I don’t know what to expect until I slide back the lid. However at some point, from the twelve different items on offer, I will remove two pork & herb sausages, two hash browns and a mess of baked beans – I ignore the ordinary sausages (taste of chemicals), the bacon (too salty), tomatoes (too squishy, and they taste of tomato), eggs, (all forms – allergy), black pudding, (too melodramatic) and the mushrooms (too watery).

I don’t have toast and I look longingly at the croissants and Danish pastries but I don’t partake. Back to my place, spreading the crisp napkin back across my lap (to catch any stray baked beans that do not come to rest on my stomach, leaving a reddish trail down my sweater). Then I set too with the knife and fork. It normally takes me up to page six to finish, depending on the quality and interest of the stories offered in my newspaper of choice. Then, and here the routine can vary, I may have another cup of coffee. Or I may not. Discarding the napkin and gathering up my paper, I leave, exchanging pleasantries with the staff on the way.

That is how routines are made. I shall do exactly the same every day, for twenty days. It will not bore me. And I will grow bigger, but not as gross as I would if I didn’t pass by those pastries, with their tempting fillings of cherry jam, or apricots, perhaps a pecan or two and some maple syrup.

No! Get thee behind me, Satan!

I’d forgotten, on Sunday I have to start work at 0600. I will miss breakfast. I made need counselling.

I haven't got any images of routines or breakfasts handy, so instead here are some silver shoes, UK size 3, and obviously not mine.