I don’t really see the point of breakfast.
Looking at it from science, my go-to looking-companion in moments like these, it makes no sense whatsoever. Yes, you haven’t eaten since dinner. If you had spent the following time walking about, or pretending to be working, or fighting off imaginary attackers, as in a recent gym class I went to completely accidentally (I was looking for what I had been told was an extremely relaxing and effort-free yoga class, but wasn’t concentrating), then feeding oneself would be a real and pressing issue. But in the interim all you have done is sleep. You have eaten food, and then gone to sleep. The occasional loo trip aside, sleeping doesn’t require a great deal of energy. If you were waking up at the crack of dawn to perform a full day’s worth of manual labour, breakfast might have some purpose. But many more of you are eating breakfast than even the most generous estimate of existing 1830’s tithe farmers.
The perilous existentialism of breakfast aside, I’m not very good at it. The only breakfast food I like, really, is that made by someone else. Otherwise breakfast seems to me to be the most mealy-mouthed and sullen of meals- every bite taken being a stolen moment of being blissfully asleep. My former flatmate was terrific at breakfast. I used to gaze at her enviously in the morning, peacefully eating her porridge whilst catching up on all the celebrity gossip she had missed whilst asleep. (You have no idea the sheer quantity of newsworthy things famous people are able to get up to whilst the rest of us are asleep. It’s almost as if they don’t have to get up in the morning). For her, breakfast was a tranquil preamble to the rest of her day. For me, it’s a time-consuming irritant which once nearly set my kitchen on fire.
‘There is absolutely no point to breakfast,’ I told my colleague crossly this morning. ‘Of course not,’ He replied. ‘Is that why you’re eating your lunch at 9.45am?’
unfashionablylost 