Sunday is about breakfast. If it’s done properly, like sex between Sting and Trudie, it can last all day but, as with all day sex, the salt begins to lose its savour after an hour or two…maybe that’s old age. Eating is only a part of Sunday breakfast as the spirit of the feast embraces much more. It’s to do with forgetting how dreadfully you behaved on Saturday night, or celebrating how well it all turned out. It can be a comforting time of selfishness or a martyrdom of selflessness when the rash thought of “I’ll cook breakfast for everyone” stops being a generous abstraction as the words tumble unintentionally from your lips. It is one of the pleasant moments when extreme youth and old age run parallel – incontinence is a bad moment, doing what the fuck you like with your food at breakfast is a good moment. All days are the same to me now, but a good breakfast coincided with Sunday today.