Never order off a menu that promises Mughlai, Chinese, Continental and South Indian cuisine.
Especially not when it’s eight in the morning. It’s a Sunday. You haven’t slept and you need a decent bloody breakfast in your stomach.
The idlis [come on! how tough is it to get a steamed rice cake right?] were like something that came out of a careless surgeon’s waste-bin. How’d he get them to smell like that? The sambar stank of last night’s mughlai trimmings… the hairy parts of onion heads and the snipped ends of garlic pods.
The chutney, was gharsley.
There’s nothing lousier than a bad breakfast on a Sun-farkin-day morning. Foul funk feast.
Just puffed on U’s ciggy to get past present foulness. Why don’t I ever remember? I hate the acrid taste of smoke even more.
I want mycornflakes in cold-coffee. NOW. Kick slap kick.
I think I’ll go bake myself a squidgy chocolate cake. And eat it too.