The chill of the early spring morning has set in across the tiled floors of the kitchen floors. It feels like walking on ice that isn't slippery. The long weeks on end of not having enough money to buy extravagant food come to a reality as I open the cupboard to find a lonely box of Weet-Bix (or should I say it's almost equivalent brand less version which has some how miraculously managed to be even more bland and stale tasting than the original which I cannot afford) and a "half empty" jar of honey (also reserved for the now mouldy multigrain bread, rotting away in the bin (multigrain because I know that my roommates will not steal any because it's not white)) that almost gives the unpleasant nature of the Weet-Bix some form of relief.

Ahhh the blue rimmed white bowl that my Mother bought for me when I moved out all those years ago, that originally came in a set of 4, and yet it's brothers have miraculously disappeared with no trace and with out a memory of an unfortunate breakage that no doubt would be remembered as a slow motion action sequence. Why is it always the outcast that is picked last?

Milk trickles over the top of the honey only to be sucked up by the stiff and lifeless Weet-Bix, making the wheat flakes resemble soggy... wheat in light of a better comparison. Opening the cutlery draw to complete my inadequate breakfast, I look down and ask myself the same question that I always seem to ask myself in the morning... "Why do we always run out of spoons?" It's not like we have fewer spoons than forks or knifes... maybe we should learn to clean up after dinner instead of doing it in the morning when all the dishes have already been used.