‘It’s not that big a deal,’ said Dad. ‘It’s just a chair in a little balcony, for God’s sake.’ He yawned and stirred his cornflakes. ‘I’m sick of this mushy stuff. Why can’t we have a decent cooked breakfast, a bit of egg and bacon and sausage?’ ‘You know why. You’re the one with high cholesterol,’ said Mum. ‘Fried breakfasts aren’t good for you.’ ‘Just one day a week, that’s all. My mother used to make fabulous fry-ups every morning. No one could beat her fried bread or her fried potatoes!’ Dad smacked his lips wistfully. ‘And she’s still fit as a fiddle, even though she’s . . .’ He paused, squinting at the calendar on the wall. ‘Oh God! It’s not the eighteenth today, is it?’ ‘Yes,’ said Mum, sounding a little defiant. ‘It’s the old bat’s birthday, isn’t it? And we haven’t got her anything.’ Dad looked at Mum reproachfully. ‘But I didn’t think, seeing as we’re not really on speaking terms any more . . .’ Mum didn’t finish, but she glanced at Will.
