Morning Table Chats

It was a slow morning. I woke up later than I had intended and lay there listening to the birds and the wind. I took my time waiting for my sleep-drenched eyes to open, stretched lazily, and considered the sleeping dog at my feet. "She's a sweet dog," I thought. I followed my daily morning ritual of opening my curtains and breathing in the fresh air from my window, brushing my teeth, and washing my face. It was a quiet, slow morning for everyone.

One by one, family members made their appearance. My Dad sat on the couch watching something on his iPad, Braden sat at the table clothed in full "British attire." Upon my questioning of his clothes, he replied that he was proving to me that he was indeed a "dapper dude" as he calls himself and not, (as I had the unfortunate idea to call him the other day), a DJ (in regards to his style choice you see). Mum came down earlier than she ever does and we awarded her with a loud round of applause, which she did not at all appreciate. Ian was the only one left upstairs, slaving away at his biology lessons, even though it was a Saturday.
Dad got up eventually to make breakfast.
"Scrambled eggs anyone?" he asked.
"If you put dill in them," I replied. My nose returned to my book. He couldn't find the dill and I mistakenly confused him even more by referring to the spice cupboard as the pantry.

I got up and made some mushrooms to go with my eggs and sat down to eat them. The boys were talking about cars, Braden is an avid follower of the threesome team that make up The Grand Tour, Top Gear, etc. I ate my eggs silently to the tune of twelve horsepower, rear suspension, and references to my father's idea of purchasing a Mini Cooper and a large truck. My mother's input was that she was to drive the truck and my dad the Cooper, as he had but two minutes to drive when it comes to going to work. Surprisingly, he agreed.

Dad soon returned to his usual mode of conversation, complaining about our grass. He is convinced that ours is dying and will never recover from winter. Daily, he walks the yard looking at each brown spot, divet, and uneven patch. The grass is never out of the conversation for long. Mother and I have decided to not tell him that our grass does indeed look terrible and that the neighbour down the street has perfect even green lawns- the less he knows the better when it comes to grass that is.

Back to the cars, we all sat around the table, our heads awkward perched over a small Samsung to watch Richard Hammond's take on the television show, "The Long Way Round"- in this case, "The Long Way Round my Yard." Hilarious, I ten out of ten recommend.

The video done, my mom and I sat talking. I examined my skin for the hundredth time.

"My nails only grow on two fingers," I complained.
"Perhaps that's where the only vitamins you have, have gone," she replied.
"Quite possibly," I mused. "I don't really have any vitamins in me. Just look at my hands, they are always yellow-tinted or else purple and I am as pale as a potato."

She laughed in agreement. She always said I ate too many potatoes. Dad was always telling me I was going to turn into one.

"That's it," I said. "I am made up of potatoes and tea."
"I couldn't agree more," she said.