I woke with a growling stomach and a cranky Siamese cat. Stumbling with my eyes half shuttered in reluctant awareness, I fed the cat, giving her soft fur a quick morning rub of greeting. I popped some bread in the toaster and thought about breakfast.

Fresh-squeezed, sweet orange juice, icy cold, and strong hot aromatic coffee perking in the drip. A thin slice of ham, grilled brown and succulent. Bacon sliced thick, crisp and salty. Homemade hash browns, crunchy on the outside, warm and perfect inside, with lots of pepper. Eggs fried, over easy… just enough to cook it, but the yolk still wet. I'd want catsup and Tabasco, salt and pepper, a leaf of lettuce and a bit of tomato, half of a pink grapefruit, tart and cold. Maybe even with a slice of fresh cantaloupe and a glistening red strawberry. Multi-grain toast and jelly to round it off…

The morning light would pour in like molten honey, bathing my small kitchen table in summer. The peach-coloured curtains would flutter in the eastern breeze, as lazy as I was, the warm sweet scent of roses and honeysuckle teasing my nose. Sunlight would dapple my milk-froth white walls and I would leisurely eat my breakfast, reading the comics, the cat purring at my feet.

The toast popped up and I automatically reached for it, still thinking of what I wanted. I choked down the dry white toast and sipped enough water to get it down.

Lord, I hate diets.