Could someone explain to me the attraction of breakfast in bed? You sit there, folded in on yourself, a tray balanced precariously on your lap, trying to saw away at a sausage, your every movement sending a tsunami of tea from cup to tray, while the one slice of toast seems to spray the sheets with crumbs, some of which will still be there months later, miraculously surviving countless brushings, washings and probably a nuclear holocaust.
If breakfast in bed was the only thing humans knew, imagine the excitement when someone invented breakfast with a table and chair.
”What we’ve done is developed a firm, stable surface – we call it ‘the table’ – plus a comfortable device on which you can sit and yet still be at a perfect height in order to consume the plate of food on ‘the table’. We call this second part of the invention ‘the chair’.”
You can imagine people gushing in admiration. ”What, no more crumbs? No more spilt tea? No more trying to digest while simultaneously being bent double as if you were attempting some sort of weird yoga pose?”
The proud inventor would smile with pleasure. ”Yes – and we’re planning to make a second chair, and perhaps even a third chair. That way it would be possible to dine with others.”
Cue assorted exclamations of delight and surprise.
Despite the invention of tables and chairs, people still spend time desperately wishing someone would make them breakfast in bed.
As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for. In fact, many things we fantasise about would prove enormously rubbish should they ever arrive.
For example: driving a red convertible, with an attractive blonde in the passenger seat. It certainly looks great when observed from the driver’s seat of your family hatchback, the car littered with the detritus of family life, the windows smeared with dog slobber, the luggage compartment full of slowly defrosting shopping, the baby seats in the back, each surrounded by a moat of apple juice, mashed chips and that strange, grey, furry stuff that only grows around baby capsules.
Viewed from that perspective, the convertible looks pretty good as it glides past in the right-hand lane.
Well, it looks good until you realise the guy bought the car just three days ago and only then as a last vain attempt to cure his erectile dysfunction, itself a product of his failure at work and his loathsome marriage and that the attractive blonde’s conversation is so wretched the man finds himself speeding up just to drown it out, at which point the car, driven too hard, will break down somewhere outside Bargo, in which place the couple will spend a miserable and cheerless weekend, climaxing – or, rather, not climaxing – in another misery-causing episode of erectile dysfunction.