Fast-Food Cook - Thinks He's A Writer

It’s going to be one of those days; I can tell. I am leaning on my desk, staring at the screen of my Apple PowerBook, and my mind is a blank, power zero. No ideas. Nothing. The children are at school, wife Stella is at work, au-pair girl Edie is out sightseeing and the apartment is silent. Perfect working conditions. I can’t even hear Madalina, our Rumanian housekeeper, getting the children's lunch ready for when they come home from school, famished after a long morning of maths, history, geography, geometry, scuffed knees and being screamed at.
My day started, as it does every morning, with my getting up at 6:30 to lay the table and prepare breakfast, which isn’t easy because my wife, children, and Edie have different tastes. I wake them up when everything’s ready and not before. It can take some time; getting them out of bed, I mean..
“Can I stay home today, Daddy?”
“No, Becky!”
“I don’t feel very well, Daddy!”
“Too bad, Harry, you shouldn’t have eaten all that chocolate last night. Now get up!”

"Uh, what time is it, Robert?" Edie groans from beneath her duvet, getting up the last thing on her mind.

"Time you got out of bed, Edie, and helped me get the children ready for school."

Another groan.  "Do I have to?"

"No, of course not.  Would you like to have your cup of tea in bed this morning?" I ask with a hint of irony.

"Oh, yes, please!"  Edie responds, missing the irony completely.  It takes a moment.  Then her head appears from beneath the duvet.  "You're joking, aren't you?"

I have already left the room.  I hear another groan and imagine her pushing back the duvet and falling out of bed.

Stella is the last member of the family I (try to) wake up.  Again, not easy.
“Robert, before I get out of bed, will you massage my feet please?”
“I can’t, Stella. The milk will boil over, the toast will burn and the eggs will stick to the ex-non-stick pan!”

Lola, of course, sleeps through it all.

(I wish!  If he didn't make so much noise...)

Far too early for her.

Depending on who gets up first, I shoot back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room taking his or her orders. Actually, it’s good training for when my writing career dies and I get myself a job as a fast-food cook.
SOMETIMES IT FEELS LIKE I AM RUNNING A RESTAURANT! ORDERS, PLEASE. SCRAMBLED EGGS, FRIED EGGS (sunny side up), POACHED EGGS, BOILED EGGS (soft, hard, three minutes, four minutes), TOAST (lightly done, and hot enough for the butter to melt), CEREALS (and they have to be Kelloggs, or high-grade Muesli, no suspect brands or hybrids), TEA (green, English Breakfast, camomile) COFFEE (black, white, weak, strong, sugar, no sugar), JUICE (and not just any juice; it has to be peach), YOGHURT (different flavours according to the likes and dislikes), AND ALL TOPPED OFF WITH THE VITAMIN OF THE MONTH (this month it’s Haliborange, a gift from Edie's parents in England).
Finally, off they all went, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Alone at last. Peace and quiet. But before I started to write, I strolled calmly up the street to my café, exchanging a few words with neighbours as I go, and ordered my ritual cappuccino and cornetto (the Italian cousin of the French croissant). Savouring the taste of coffee and cornetto, which is close to being my favourite moment of the day, I chatted with barman Marco about last night’s Champions League football game between Roma and Manchester United, who won. I am a United supporter, but can’t boast about it for fear of reprisals and the wrath of my son, who is an avid Roma fan.
Back to staring at my blank computer screen.  Something will come, I know it will; hopefully before the children get home for lunch.

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