One of the few aphorisms that I still follow – or indeed can now recall – is that, on holiday, you should always opt for an early breakfast. In my father’s opinion, the fruit juice and boiled eggs were that much fresher. The stocks of cereal and jam would still be complete. The staff would be that much more attentive. The view from the window would be softer, still in the glow of the newly risen sun. It is true that he based this policy on the shortcomings of certain cheap hotels in the Peak District or North Wales in which he, and therefore my mother and I, endured our summer holidays thirty or more years ago. Nevertheless, it was one of his better dicta. There really is something about an early breakfast that puts a spring in one’s step and makes one’s spirits rise. ‘What are you playing at, you pillock?’ My thoughts were interrupted by a short, plump literary agent thrusting a mobile phone in my face. ‘That’s my phone,’ I said, eyeing it from roughly three inches away.
