Breakfast in Paris...

On the early morning news was an article on romantic weekend breaks. "Why", I asked the Husband over breakfast, "have you never taken me to Paris?" Without even lifting his eyes from the sports pages he replied, "I don't like Paris." Well, there we are then. I take it he also dislikes restaurants, cinemas, concerts, wine bars, theatres, and other people's pubs.

I have exactly the same breakfast every single day & have done for years. Three cups of tea (made with two teabags each) & two slices of brown toast with bits in, slathered in butter, marmite & apricot jam. Sometimes I go a bit mad & have blackcurrant; even better would be my mother's goosberry jam, circa 1978, an inch of rock hard crystalised sugar beneath the wax paper disc. Occasionally I come over all continental, & demand croissants, gently heated & eaten plain with butter, but that requires real coffee made with hot milk, & at heart I am definitely a morning tea person. Scrambled eggs with cream & chives, crispy bacon & a good dollop of ketchup, scooped up with white toast & butter, is an occasional treat to soothe the jangled nerves of a morning-after - a sadly rare occurence in these post-baby times.

Or should that be post-babies. And soon Number Four will join the brood. We were delighted to discover that the reason Weightwatchers has not delivered the same startling results for me as it has for the Duchess of York, was NOT because I was cheating with my points & secretly tucking in to deep-fried Mars Bar sandwiches when the food police weren't looking, but because I am pregnant. Sadly, that feeling of being permanently car-sick has blighted the past few months, & light salads have been the order of the day - a regimen Fergie would no doubt approve of. But of course it has had little effect on my spreading girth...