The Owners Second Breakfast

Am I allowed to make predictions? Well I think I can make just the one at this point and with a certain sense of inevitability. I think The Owner will be having a tender tummy before too long and soon he will be running up the stairs holding his belly with a certain sense of urgency.

He was up early this morning, far too early. He has been busy making beds and flitting around energetically with the duster (not a pretty sight as the sun comes over the horizon) and then chasing me around the room with that ruddy Dyson. Oh how we laughed! With altogether far too much energy expended that early in the morning he predictably made himself a cup of tea and collapsed into his favourite armchair and fell asleep. Asleep, that was, until his hand went limp and he spilled his tea all over his lap! Then he starts fidgeting, well as you can imagine I thought this was due in some part to his rather tea stained shirt and trousers. But no, he wanders off into the kitchen with that rather strange way of walking reserved for when a hoomun has wet shirt and trousers and starts clattering around in the bread bin. Empty! Well I knew it was! I thought this would have started more flour filled hours of fun as he made some more, but no! A quick visit to the freezer in the shed and he returns with a frozen loaf of bread and a solid pack of bacon. He tried valiantly to separate the frozen rashers and eventually threw the broken bits, still solid, into the pan and then turns his attention to trying to thaw sufficient of the loaf to cut two slices off the end. Bacon just about thawed and bread buttered he balanced the plate with the bread on top of the chip pan. Well even I could see that the plate was barely the same size as the chip pan! We now have a plate and two slices of bread floating around in the bottom of the chip pan and the plate appears not to want to come back out of the hole it so easily slid through. Unwilling to go through the whole bread thawing routine again he retrieves his pruning saw from the shed and cuts two more slices of bread and tells himself that it will thaw from the heat in the bacon. Presumably the same bacon which has been off the heat for a good ten minutes now and has fat starting to congeal around the edges. He proudly carried the fruit of his labours into the lounge to watch BBC Breakfast with the bread glistening like the grass on a frosty morning and the bread covered in a layer of congealed fat. Like I said, I can safely predict he will soon be running upstairs to the toilet with a pained expression on his face.