My mum used to tell a story of her mam and dad (my grandparents) and breakfast.When my grandmother used to serve up an egg for breakfast, just one, her husband used to say, much to the fury of his wife, I knew a man. He had two eggs. He’s living yet.
I remember once my dad revealing to us an important discovery he had just made. You know what I had this morning, he said, as we assembled together to hear what he had to say. No, we said, me; my mum, my sisters. Hot toast. We looked back at him. Hot toast, he said again. Much to the fury of my mum. Toast was supposed to be hot. If he hadn’t been so slow buttering it, he would have been eating hot toast all his life. We all laughed at him. He only shook his head sadly, as though he knew we were all of us in it together, pretending to know about hot toast just to gang up on him.
My friend Andrew cannot abilde hot toast. It is anathema to him. Toast, yes. But not hot toast . And this obvious truth (cette evidence in the French) has spread through his family like a virus. Jacob, his nine year old, looked at me in shock and horror, as though at the revelation of an ‘orrible murder, when I mentioned hot toast. This crime against humanity is som thing I believe he still holds against me.