“Would you like me to explain the concept of breakfast to you, sir?” asked the waitress. Now that’s good service; philosophical discussion, easy side up.
She meant of course, the mechanics of breakfast; how I as a breakfaster could order tea, then visit the buffet. And so I did.
I’m at the fancy hotel in St Andrews. It’s hard to describe just how fancy it is, other than to say that the people on the table next me were talking about golf and CEOs pulling in three-million dollars and using it to finance storm-chasing. I thought that might be city-jargon for some high-level wheeler-dealing, but no, it turned out to be chasing actual tornadoes across the Midwest. So I am here, yes. Fancy hotel. But I am out of my depth.
That feels like a bit of a theme. I’m out of my depth socially too. I just don’t quite know what to say to people - work people, I mean. Coupled with the blinking faces of colleagues who don’t really know who I am, and it’s a bit awkward.
For me, the concept of breakfast is patience. You wait through the night, hoping that the sun will rise and light your way. And then, gloriously, food, sustenance, orange juice, tea, bacon, coco pops and this morning in Scotland, haggis, which I was surprised to discover, is simply the inside of a spicy sausage. These things mark the end of night and the first etchings of a brand new day with all its opportunities. Maybe I should try going over and above my shyness today, and talk to more people.
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