Breakfast the Forty-Eighth

Eggs Florentine at the lovely Urban Angel. Yum!

Today I had brunch with my Mater, and tried to persuade her that she ought to hang the neighbours (and the expense) and buy a piano. Her neighbours would at least be overhearing some lovely playing, unlike my poor lot who were subjected to some very sketchy cello playing this afternoon.

I consider it one of life's great injustices that I inherited none of my Mama's musical talents. Instead, I take after my father: a music lover with absolutely no aptitude for creating it. Actually, I think I may have a little more aptitude than mon pere: I once saw him deliver "Money, Money, Money" as a soliloquy in the local pantomime because his singing was so patchy. And, when he was a boy, a frustrated piping teacher once announced to my Great Grandfather, himself a good piper -- "there's more music in the fucking plumbing than there is in that boy."