EVERYONE has a morning routine; a way of doing things that helps them start the day in the right way. The Dalai Lama, for instance, drags himself off his futon before dawn and does 30 minutes on the treadmill followed by a little light meditation.
(I know he's a holy man and all that, but don't you sometimes wish there was a little chink in his armour; a small rip in his robes? Perhaps a fondness for making crank phone calls, or for licking the icing off cup-cakes then putting the boring spong
y bits back in the tin?)
Unlike the saffron-robed one, I prefer to stay in my pit until I can see the sun straining through the curtains. And there's no room in the house for a treadmill, otherwise I'd be on that baby for hours before brekkie, make no mistake. But no matter where I am in the world, I like to start the day with a cup of tea while I catch up on the news. (His Holiness, incidentally, is also a fan of the old Rosie Lee – he's even had one custom-blended for him, containing honey bush, ginger, cinnamon and liquorice.)
Just Typhoo will do for me, thanks. Simple tastes. No Mariah-Carey-esque demands for 100 white kittens to lick me gently from my slumber. Or two oiled-up slave boys to transport me downstairs to see what the heck Kate Silverton has dragged out of her wardrobe this time. I'm not particularly fussy about what I have for breakfast, and I don't even care that before my spoon makes contact with my bowl of sugar-free Alpen (natural yoghurt – no milk – and fresh blueberries, since you're asking) I have a packed lunch to make, a gym kit to wash and last night's tea dishes to put away. Hey, that's the kind of laid-back, easily pleased gal I am.
So it was with a spring in my step and a smile in my heart that I trotted down the stairs the other morning, eagerly anticipating my first brew of the day. The house was eerily quiet but there were signs of life in the kitchen: Weetabix already turning to reinforced concrete in its bowl on the worktop, a bike missing and the back door wide open to the world – either we'd been targeted by a cereal burglar or the Mild One was out on his paper round.
I put the kettle on, grabbed my favourite cup and reached for the fridge. There was the milk carton, the enormous six-pinter I only bought two days ago, containing the most infinitesimal drop of milk – even the cat would turn its whiskers up at it. It was too early to get more; the corner shop doesn't open until 8am, so that was pretty much it. Day ruined. Might as well go back to bed.
What is this aversion children have to putting rubbish where it belongs? My kitchen is a cardboard graveyard. Sure, the shelves were once well stocked with all manner of tasty biscuits and cereal bars, but once the last one was eaten, instead of putting the boxes in the bin, they went back in the cupboard.
Even the multipack of crisps remained suspiciously puffed up in the corner until one of the little angels informed me the last bag of cheese and onion was finished three weeks ago. More than once I have gone to make a sandwich only to discover the Lurpak tub is empty save for a few burnt toast crumbs.
And if I ever find out who ate the last three chunks of my Green & Black's Maya Gold (carefully refolding the foil and putting the wrapper back where they found it), fingernails will be removed one by one using a pair of rusty pliers.
But first I'll send them out for a fresh pint of semi-skimmed. If it's not too much trouble.
