Breakfast at Warrigal
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As the sun peeked over the horizon, casting a gentle glow over the quaint village of Bundanoon, I found myself roused by the dulcet tones of Mrs. Henderson's operatic snores from the next room. A symphony, truly. I had another day at Warrigal, our local nursing home. With a sigh and a stretch that made me resemble a rusty accordion, I shuffled to the dining room for breakfast.
Breakfast at Warrigal was always a spectacle. Picture this: a grand hall with tables neatly set, the faint smell of toast lingering in the air, and a host of characters that made "Downton Abbey" look like a low-budget soap opera. Today, our motley crew had gathered early, each character more colourful than the last.
Seated at the head of the table was Mr. Thompson, a retired pilot who never missed an opportunity to regale us with tales of daring mid-air rescues that grew more outlandish with each telling. To his right was Mrs. Clarke, who insisted on wearing a different hat for every meal. Today’s selection was a miniature sombrero, a souvenir from her alleged trip to Tijuana in the '70s. No one had the heart to tell her that sombreros weren't exactly Mexican haute couture.
As I took my seat, I spotted the ever-meticulous Mrs. Greenwood meticulously cutting her toast into perfect, regimented squares. One could set their watch by her precision. Just across from her, Mr. O'Leary was attempting to butter his toast with his electric shaver, which, to be fair, made about as much sense as anything he did before his morning tea.
The highlight, however, was always breakfast itself. Warrigal's resident chef, young Timmy, had an unusual flair for the dramatic. Today's pièce de résistance was “deconstructed porridge,” which looked suspiciously like regular porridge, only messier. When Mrs. Clarke inquired about the difference, Timmy confidently replied, "It’s artisanal, madam." We weren’t entirely sure what that meant, but it did little to elevate our enthusiasm.
Halfway through my toast, I noticed Mrs. Henderson had finally joined us, her snores now replaced by a commentary on how the toast wasn’t nearly as good as it was during the war. I decided not to ask which war she was referring to.
Just as I thought the breakfast theatrics were over, Mr. Thompson stood up, tapping his spoon against his glass. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice filled with the gravity of an old BBC announcer, “I have an important announcement.” We all leaned in. “I've decided to fly again!”
Mrs. Clarke's sombrero nearly toppled off in surprise. “But, Harold,” she said, “you haven’t flown in decades!”
“Details, details,” he waved her off, then settled back down, a twinkle in his eye. It was moments like these, amidst the absurdity and the laughter, that made life at Warrigal a delightful adventure.