The curious arena of the B & B breakfast room. One enters into the womb-like world of crushed whispers and ornate china, to be greeted by older folks, sipping silently from serious spoons of cereal, whilst watching the world through tiny, tired eyes. Amid jugs of juice and novelty salt and pepper pots, beneath scenic landscape paintings, young couples, carefree and freshly buttered from love making, discreetly scatter words across dry-cleaned tablecloths, like toast crumbs. The only real noise of any note is that of plates being cleared, the footsteps from their host going back and forth, and the departure of gloomy guests, as they rise, their chair legs scraping across the floor. This is the awkward munching of minds and individuals: creeping, crunching, strangers dining, most amusing, bodies cruising through a breakfast room, where they who are nearing the end of their adventure collide with those who are just about to embark on theirs.
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