It’s time to briefly sidetrack from London and travel talk for a quick moan. Because I had the worst breakfast ever.

Allow me to set the scene. It was Sunday “morning” (2pm), the day after a large night in the buzzing cultural metropolis that is Clapham high street AKA my favourite night in London. My kitchen looked like it had been robbed by someone with about as much grace as a baby elephant in a dolls house (who knows, perhaps it had), and I had zero food left in the house. I was in need of an emergency breakfast. And so the boyfriend and I dashed out, quickly settling on a nice looking French restaurant.

The first sign of the nightmare ahead came with the arrival of my glass of orange juice – the “glass” having more in common (capacity-wise) with a tablespoon than the tumbler of vitamins that my body so badly needed. And cost £3.

And then it arrived. Let’s allow the photo to do the talking:

bread_

I know, right.

And then insult was added to injury:

ketchup_

This was about as much as I could handle. The waiter responded to my request for “an alternative tomato-based sauce” with something that usually goes with pork. (To be fair, at least he tried). But the pompous sign chalked onto the wall left a bit of a sour taste in my mouth. Which was about as much flavour as I experienced that morning.

A few brief thoughts on Ketchup etiquette:

1. Filling a Heinz bottle with a cheap shit excuse for ketchup is not fooling anyone.

2. “NO ketchup”. Preach! No.

3. Charging for ketchup. I mean, where does this end? Salt? Pepper?