Breakfast in bed

I extricated myself gingerly from George’s embrace to roll gently out of bed. I didn’t want to wake him but he stirred and mumbled come back to bed, I knelt on his side of the bed and whispered,’ Honey, I’ll be back. Please let me go make some breakfast,’ and kissed his eyes shut.

Going downstairs just in my pyjama bottoms and tattered slippers to the kitchen I wasn’t feeling too great perhaps due to the dinner party we went to last night and the liberal amount of booze we quaffed. Must learn my limits, I said to myself for the umpteenth time as I popped one of the 175mg Milk Thistle capsules that I keep incase I fall off the wagon again. On the fridge door Imelda the housekeeper had left me a post-it note, Tamaku, make sure you eat the salad I made. Remember your cholesterol, no red meat today (this last instruction underlined twice). Awww Imelda what a sweetie, my heart and I both love you. And I’m full of admiration too because she doesn’t have the benefit of a spell-checker. She spends today and every Sunday with her son Paul and mother in Kawangware.

Then I made my signature dish of Spanish omelette Kenyan-style without the milk but with hot green chilies, accompanied by farmer’s choice sausages (let’s all pretend I saw Imelda’s note after breakfast) and four slices of toast. I also put a flask of sasini gold tea ‘packed with passion’ and a jug of carrot juice on the tray to take upstairs to the bedroom.

So George and I sat up in bed eating, both blissfully quiet. Sometimes you don’t even need to say a word; the silence says it all.