I. Imagining the full English breakfast

Sausages –
so long since I’ve eaten real sausages that I can’t remember how they taste and all I think of is the plate heaped high at my sister’s house, succulent and freckled black and brown, steaming and sweating fat; or cartoon sausages in Beano comics, slightly curved and strangely phallic, tucked into a bed of mashed potato and slathered in thick brown gravy, whose viscous meaty bitterness I can still remember from Aunty Dolly’s house after all these years.

Nowadays sausages means
veggie sausages, thin pink frankfurters plumping up in the boiling water, their smooth, rounded sides pockmarked as they overboil, their smoky taste turning to sawdust held together with salty glue once they are anything less than piping hot; or the herby, peppery heft of vegetarian Lincolnshire sausages, not quite fatty enough, but succulent and spicy; or the gritty textured sos-mix cooked in tetrahedrons because that’s the only shape I can roll them into, burnt on the outside and tender inside, textured like couscous; sausages dipped in grainy beery mustard, snuggled up on the plate next to the fried egg, ballerina-frilly skirt bubbled and browned around the edges, plump yellow bodice ready to burst open at the slightest touch of the fork and spread glimmering trails over the bacon, stiff and straight with artificial fat slightly browned and the tasteless cardboard texture of the wound-red veggie rasher.

But the mushrooms –
it’s worth the whole meal just for the mushrooms: pale grey flesh flecked with the black of freshly ground pepper, smelling earthy and oily and glistening with juices, as succulent and flavoursome as their aroma suggests, the perfect complement to a thick slice of white bread, soft and doughy, soaking up the thin dark juice, salty fresh and earthy, and the streaky yellow of the egg, the sharp juice of the tomato that nestles almost under the sausages, soft and yielding and slightly burnt on top.