Do you remember being about 8 years old? You wake up bleary-eyed and your at your nan's house because your parents were, well, I don't know what they were doing last night, but for some reason I had to stay at my nan's house. Hmmm...I'm happy not to chase that thought down with my curious little mind. 

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It's, what's this, 7am?! and she's calling you downstairs. 'Rickie!!!' So you slip out of bed and trundle down the unfamilar staircase with that weird stair rug only your nan has.

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You arive at the table and you're treated to a proper English brekky, I don't mean the full-english, no that's reserved for full-family affairs. It's the sort you'd only get at your nan's. Egg n Soldier's, the option of a crumpet with generous amounts of butter. Butter kept at room temperature? Tea from a pot? I don't even like tea. I'm gonna pretend to, though, this is a serious affair. Everything is checkered and there is all these fancy bits and bobs and pots and who ha. Someone special must be coming, you think - must act proper. 

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You're barely chin over the vinyl tablecloth, Grandad has his nose in that thick Sunday paper and Nan's standing over you like a matron in her pinny 'Do you want one egg or two?' 

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Step back with me to the glorious novelty of 'Breakfast Time.'