It was occupied by a very large English breakfast: two sausages, two fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans, fried potatoes, and something called black pudding, plus toast and black-currant jam, and the two fried eggs seemed to be staring back at him in mute reproach that he had ordered so much food and was now not eating it. He had hardly slept, but was hungover to the point of mutilation. Earlier, he had sworn an oath that he would never drink or take benodex again, but he had lately relented sufficiently to order a gin and orange juice along with his coffee, and, had anyone offered him one of the capsules of yellow powder, he probably would have taken it and asked for another, justifying his oath-breaking by claiming it was a matter of survival. He had managed to shave and dress for the day’s parade, and make it down to the café for a late breakfast, but, after those efforts, he had flagged. He took a sip of gin and orange and decided he should force himself to eat. He liberally poured catsup over the eggs, and then tore off a piece of toast and stabbed the yolks with it.
