There was a novel to read on the train
A scarf that I'd bought for a friend
Gloves, recipes, shopping lists, bits torn out of newspapers that are slowly turning into confetti.
And if he'd plunged deep enough he'd have found a white pudding.
White puddings are a rare delicacy in London so when I happened upon them in an Irish shop, I had to buy one. (And shove it into my handbag for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe in another life I will return as someone with one perfect red Chanel lipstick in a designer bag ... in this life I am the person clutching a bag of hard-to-source offal.)
Sadly, today's white puddings never taste quite as good as they did in my childhood. (And I've certainly lost the taste for nibbling it raw.)
But fried in lashings of grease until you can spread it on thick, white factory bread
And you can feel your arteries clogging
That's what I call a Sunday breakfast.