Stereo on and cooking bacon, never came back to tell us why

Saturday was planned to be the sort of busy day with weird timings where you're never quite sure where the meals are going to fit in. The only sensible way to take on a day like that is to start with a really hoofing breakfast.

My reaction would usually be to cook one, or to head up to the pizza restaurant which (slightly unexpectedly) does decent eggs Benedict of a Saturday morning. ChrisC insisted we should head to The Walpole, a small, scarlet-painted greasy spoon at the other side of Ealing. We've been meaning to investigate rumours of its greatness for some time but... well...

( Don't tell anyone, will you? But I'm not that excited about fry-ups. )