Little Chef, mid-morning, nursing a hangover from too much cheese the night before. In fact, this much cheese...
BEHOLD THE GREAT TOWER OF CHEESES
It was a long, long night in the Whitstable Travelhovel, haunted by cheese-driven dreams which are too disturbing to recount even on these pages.
Breakfast arrives, and with it, a loud family of cockney geezers, on their way down to the coast for a cockney geezer day trip scoffing jellied eels and punching whelks in the face. Cockney bloke is loud, intimidating, and putting me off my pork products.
"YOU GOT COFFEE?" he bellows.
"Yes sir, we have coffee. What would you like?"
"I'LL HAVE A LATTE. A LATTE WITH MILK."
I will be the first to admit that I did an actual laugh out loud, before realising that I was eating in a Little Chef and therefore the loser in this whole deal. On reflection, at least he didn't ask for a "BLACK LATTE", because I would have pointed and laughed, my final middle-class act on this Earth before being killed entirely to death.
And to prove that the world IS royally screwed, we stopped at a motorway service station on the way home, where - with my own eyes - I saw a sign boasting "All-day breakfast - available from 12 noon"
I would have taken a picture, but cameras in a busy gents' toilet are somewhat frowned upon. I have diced with death enough for one day.