Breakfast the Fifty-First

Oaty cluster thingys, yoghurt and raspberries.

I saw stars this evening, proper spinning round your head ones like in cartoons. They were brought on by a combination of hunger, and standing up too fast after running to yoga class. Probably this is the closest I shall ever come to a swoon.

We Macdonalds are not the fainting type. Especially not me. I am relentlessly robust: a hopeless candidate as a damsel in distress, and indeed a romantic heroine. Although... an early Austen heroine did counsel "Beware of Swoons ... Run mad as often as you chuse; but do not faint" -- so perhaps there is scope for non-fainting romantic heroines.

My Mama, on the other hand, is a champion fainter. So much so that she can't do Pilates, and has to sleep propped up on a mound of pillows.