Full English Breakfast

Full English Breakfast

I woke up the morning after Debra’s funeral on her sofa with not so much a stinking hangover but a desire for a full English breakfast. Some young guy was snoring on the other sofa. He was mid twenties, very small, but had a big character, in an unassuming way, the type that sneak up on you as the night goes on. He was a good friend of Debra’s sons who owned the little quaint Victorian cottage now that she had passed away only weeks earlier, just after the New Year. I couldn't remember the guy's name snoring on the sofa but only a couple of hours earlier we talked about British boxing in Debra’s old kitchen as we snorted lines of cocaine on the kitchen counter with my twenty pound note that was now in his pocket.  I didn't think to ask for it back; it was my contribution to the festivities. I think that was the last time I ever did cocaine. Cocaine- the treat, the special occasion, often late at night, when someone brings it out in the open for all to share, in this case it was this young guy on the sofa snoring. We all wore black and needed something to numb our grief. There was a bottle of Captain Jack’s rum and Coca Cola cans, a water bong, and scattered Stella Artois cans. We didn't listen to music or have anything on the old television in the front room where Debra used to watch EastEnders and we used to talk, write and smoke. I’d never done cocaine in Debra’s house and it did seem a bit strange to do the evening of her funeral. The cocaine kept coming out of my nose and dropping down onto my blazer. It glowed. At first I thought it was dandruff. I picked a couple of granules and stuck them back into my nose. I always slept on the sofa when I crashed at Debra's. Her sons were now the owners of the cottage so I wasn't sure whether it was cool for me to do so still. Whatever the case, I think they figured I had the furthest distance to return home and wasn't in any condition to do so. 

I stumbled through the kitchen and saw the remains of the night before. I poured myself a glass of cold water from the tap. The glass was tall with water stains. There was no room in the sink to clean the glass or the looks of any washing up liquid. My head and neck ached as I tilted the tall glass back and let the cold tap water enter my throat. Ahh! Out of the corner of my eye I saw Debra’s bookshelf, right next to the entrance to the bathroom and toilet (a good place). I walked over to the bookshelf with my glass of water. There is something about a nice glass of tap water and a good bookshelf. Debra’s bookshelf was hung up on the wall but it was still difficult to decipher the titles as there was a shortage of light in the corner where it hung so I had to squint. There was a section holding up the right hand bottom corner for Virginia Woolf paperbacks- Mrs. Dalloway, To The Lighthouse, etc.. Debra loved Virginia Woolf. Father’s and Sons, The Big Sleep, Revenge of the Lawn, Mr. Norris Changes Trains, Good Morning Midnight, The Hearing Trumpet, Rabbit Run, and a bunch of others I stood and stared at with my glass of cold water in my hands, taking the occasional sip to savour the moment. I decided there that I would take a couple of books. Debra was dead. Her sons didn’t read. It wasn’t their thing. They wouldn’t even notice, so what did it matter? Debra always praised Virginia Woolf so I decided that maybe she would be a suitable choice. Debra was an English literature teacher at the college where I used to work teaching basic mathematics to construction students. I grabbed down To the Lighthouse and took it into the bathroom with me. I read the first two pages (8-9) on the throne before I finished my poo and my glass of water.  I then went back to find my bag to smuggle the books out. The young guy was still snoring on the other sofa. I grabbed my bag at the foot of the sofa and took it back to the bookshelf. I took Mrs. Dalloway and To the Lighthouse. My criteria was simple; grab what you haven’t read yet. I grabbed Rabbit Run. I grabbed Moby Dick. I grabbed A Bend in the River. I grabbed Journey to the End of the Night.  I still haven't read them. 

I walked out the front door and up the street in the early morning February cold. I craved an English breakfast so I walked into town where I could find a nice cafe and catch the 281 bus back to Twickenham and then the 267 to Isleworth. As I came into town I asked a man with a helmet on his head if he knew of a good place to get a good English breakfast. He told me to continue up the high street and turn right. I was heading in that direction anyway and I knew the road he meant. It was cafe row and the choice of English breakfasts. At this hour of a dead winter morning the cafes in front of me were all empty. I flipped a coin in my head and entered an empty cafe and ordered a full English breakfast with coffee and a glass of tap water. I had the place to myself and I felt like I was back at a greasy spoon in New Jersey or old Portland, Oregon. I reached into my bag and pulled out To the Lighthouse and tried to read the first page again.