MAXWELL HICE

"Good morning!"

I am talking to myself, as I am the only person here.

"Good morning!" I am answering myself, as I am still the only person here and I don't want to appear rude.

"So, how did you sleep?"

I reply brusquely:

"I've no idea, I was asleep at the time."

"Good point."

The conversation lags a tad.

I imbibe a sip of Maxwell House, feeling quietly proud that the reader is now aware and maybe slightly in awe of the fact that I am able to use the word 'imbibe' which, let's face it, is fairly posh and shows that I am quite well-read and have a half decent vocabulary. The only downer in the whole sentence is that I should be drinking some exotic blend of Turkish coffee and not crappy Maxwell Hice, as the upper classes would pronounce it, if they even knew it existed, which I doubt, as they're a bunch of snobs and wouldn't demean themselves with even the knowledge of it.

The cat jumps onto the kitchen table and regards me with its usual indifference.

It miaows and then, without let or hindrance, suddenly starts up-chucking.

After much dramatic hawking and retching, it throws up a hair ball, glares at it and then at me and then stalks off angrily as though it was my fault.

(Or as though it were my fault - anyway who gives a toss.)

I remove the offending article.

"So, what about breakfast?" I ask.

I think before I answer.

"I suppose so." I say hesitantly.

"Boiled eggs or maybe just toast?" I suggest.

I go over the pros and cons. Toast is easy, just pop a slice or two in the toaster and the thing is done. Boiled eggs? Well that's a different kettle of fish, to use an apt 'metaphor de cuisine'. Heating the water, the tricky problem of timing the eggs, and then the fact that anyway, whatever you bloody do, they always come out either hard as granite or dripping with noxious fluids.

Incidentally, where does the term "A different kettle of fish come from?" I ask.

I answer shortly.

"Sorry, I'm hungry I have no time for self-indulgent cliché hunts."

"There's no need to be rude." I answer.

I breakfast in silence. Toast and marmalade. I stifle the obvious question, where does the word: 'Marmalade' come from? As I know I will be extremely

rude to myself.

After breakfast I shave, averting my gaze from myself in the mirror, as I don't want to make eye contact. Feelings are still prickly.

I get dressed peacefully, though there is nearly friction over the choice of shirt. Luckily, I decide on the green paisley, which looks very good in the mirror.

I wink at myself and then giggle. Suddenly everything is good!

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