t was my first morning waking up in Ireland, and I was feeling a bit hungry. So I walked down to the dining room of my modest bed and breakfast, and was relieved to find a fairly sizable self-service spread. With a plastic tray in hand, I helped myself to a few slices of Irish soda bread, a slice of rye with butter, and a bowl of Weetabix with milk (which incidentally is great for maintaining regularity when travelling). Greedily, I also ladled some canned fruits with syrup into a bowl, and then fixed a serving of strong tea with cream and sugar, as well as a glass of orange juice.

With all the foods that I had selected, my small dining table could barely contain all the various plates, bowls, cups, utensils, and glass that held them. Anyway, as I was about to gorge myself silly on this improvised feast, a waitress came by and asked, “Would you like to have breakfast?”

“What? I don’t understand… Hey, wait a second, I think I’ve read somewhere something about this,” I thought. My mind then switched to high-speed processing mode. “Of course, now I remember... Well, after all, I am on holiday, which may also imply that my semi-vegetarian status can also take a break,” I pathetically rationalised.

“Bring it on!” I replied.

A few minutes later, she brought a large plate that held the following, all of which I’ve ate most of: two fried eggs, a halved tomato, two slices of bacon, two bangers, two slices of fried white bread, a hockey puck-like slice of black pudding (yeah, I surprised even myself), and a corresponding slice of white pudding.

I did not have lunch that day.

07 January 2006