Breakfast at Bill’s

I cycle down from Malling to the Cliffe with one thought in my head, running like a mantra. ‘Bacon sandwich at Bill’s; Bacon sandwich at Bill’s’. It’s breakfast time, 8.35am to be exact, and I’ve decided that a heavy day at work is best catapulted from a solid launching pad. I tie my bike to the bridge railings and wander in. Early morning is the best time to visit Bill’s: there’s plenty of room. I find myself a place at the long table, and ask the guy reading the racing paper next to me if I can pull out the Guardian from beneath the pile in front of him. “This is the only news I read, mate,” he says. “The rest depresses me.” A red-shirted girl comes up, and I order. Bacon sandwich please. And a double macchiato. Saint Germaine are playing their buzzy, jazzy stuff through the speakers, and staff are skipping around putting fruit and vegetables on shelves. The sandwich and coffee arrive, with one of those big tomato-shaped sauce bottles. I open the sandwich, squirt in the sauce and take a bite. Four tastes - the soft brown bread, the melted butter, the sharp sauce, the tang of bacon. Crunchy bacon. Each mouthful washed down with a gulp of coffee. And then the newspaper. The Tories reject Winston Churchill’s welfare state policies in favour of those of Polly Toynbee. Robert Altman dies. Arsenal beat Hamburg. I finish the sandwich, gulp the last gulp of coffee, pay at the till. £4.55. I’m ready for my day. AL