This is still my stuff.

Been meaning to try the breakfasts at this well-regarded Italian café for years (though obviously not as many years as the place has been waiting for me to show up - “est. 1900”!) - to my shame, I never managed to make it down there while I was working just up the road in Shoreditch. Went there Friday morning to break fast with John Z who’s moving to an amazing job in Georgia. Bacon sausage mushrooms beans and toast. Job's a good ’un. Good luck John.

That's it, I've decided. I don't like tomatoes with a cooked breakfast. Yes, I know that's something of a momentous decision for me to announce so unexpectedly, and one which some may feel warrants further discussion, but I'm serious about this. It's just not what I want. Allow me, if you will, to elaborate.

For me, breakfast is all about glue, slime, stodge. Bulk. The raw materials of a daily grind; high-octane fuel for our high-intensity enterprise. None of your existential doubt drawn from a slightly translucent, watery, roof-of-your-mouth-burning superfluous component for me. It's got to be solid; in an ideal world a poached or fried egg would be mercilessly punctured, allowing its lustrous golden goo to cement its comrades' companionship before they get anywhere the cakehole - yea, I say unto you, even on the plate - but given that this world is far from the Ideal, I say that the salivatory effect induced by tomatoes' aqueous gunge is AN INADEQUATE SUBSTITUTE, and, frankly, I'd rather do without.

Naysay me all thou wilt; I'll countenance none of your pish, nor any of your tosh, and there, Sir, and there, Madam, is an end on't.