It's breakfast that gets me out of bed every day to start my morning routine. But sadly, not my own. It's that little guy next to me who wriggles, squirms and speaks, perhaps accompanied by a rude slap on the face, sometimes a sweet whisper, or sometimes a shout, that he is so hungry, his tummy is rumbling and it's time for breakfast. I feel lucky if my little Hugo alarm goes off after 6am, usually it's the around the 5.30 mark. After the smalls' breakfast is under way, I have my first coffee of the day. Then it's usually a chaotic rush to get out the door on time. But after we return from the morning drop off, it's time for my breakfast. Hugo's off playing and I like to sit amongst the breakfast dishes and linger over a second coffee and perhaps some toast with jam, maybe a boiled egg. The morning sun shines in and I eat in peace, whilst reading a library book, a recipe, the mail, or perhaps writing a list for the day. I sit for sometimes three, maybe, four minutes if I'm very lucky. It's complete and utter blissful me time.