The generosity of my mothers breakfast was heart warming. Eggs, the way i like them, crispy on the edges, with the yolk half hardened sat proudly on golden, buttered slices of toast. Sausages were parked next to juicy, grilled lamb chops with charred fat edges. Three or four rashers of crunchy bacon resting on thick red slices of fried tomato somehow found room on the colourful plate. Sprigs of garden fresh parsley, salt, pepper and a tall tumbler of chilled orange juice were layed lovingly before me. This sumptuous start to the day was often enjoyed after a bowl of porridge swimming in hot fresh milk and sprinkled with sugar and wheat germ. While eating, Mum and I often played "eye spy" choosing pieces of fruit from theself adhesive wallpaper (fruit on shelves) that covered the corner of the kitchen, where the fridge was king. Breakfast was served on a sky blue, round wooden table. The two widows were always open, letting the morning air and sunshine sparkle through the tumbler of juice. My reflection was clear in the shiny cutlery. Like school children peering jealously at my morning fare, were rows of blue hydrangeas. My tank fuelled with nutrition and love, i was ready for school. I conquered the hill to Narwee each morning. The days at the top of the hill were not always to my liking, but the journey home was always reassuring as I knew how the next day would begin.