Sitting up to breakfast on cold mornings, the riot of colour and paper
and pictures around us, and the cork tiles warm beneath our feet. A
great big pyrex jug full of Ready Break, with the dribbles of
explosions in the microwave baked crispy to the outside. I would
plunge my spoon into my bowlful to break up the slight skin to get to
the tender and soft, warm and filling oatiness. It would bulge
slightly against the bowl, having a soft rounded top, and the drizzle
of golden syrup would sink down into it, making a channel. I would write my name with syrup, or swirl it in a spiral. And when
you took a mouthful, it would sit leaden and warm in your stomach,
like insulation for the long, dull school day ahead.
and pictures around us, and the cork tiles warm beneath our feet. A
great big pyrex jug full of Ready Break, with the dribbles of
explosions in the microwave baked crispy to the outside. I would
plunge my spoon into my bowlful to break up the slight skin to get to
the tender and soft, warm and filling oatiness. It would bulge
slightly against the bowl, having a soft rounded top, and the drizzle
of golden syrup would sink down into it, making a channel. I would write my name with syrup, or swirl it in a spiral. And when
you took a mouthful, it would sit leaden and warm in your stomach,
like insulation for the long, dull school day ahead.
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