Before we got up this morning I said, 'Do you want breakfast in bed?'
'No, I'll get up.'
'Wait then while I go and put the oven on for the croissants.' (Luckily George had only managed to eat one before I caught him.)
'Nah, I'll just have toast for breakfast.'
'Okay, you can have bacon and brie croissants for lunch.'
'I was going to have cereal for lunch.'
'Oh, for heaven's sake! You are going to celebrate your birthday whether you want to or not!'
So we had croissants for breakfast on the dining table in between his laptop, an empty milk bottle, a piece of kitchen shelving and a pile of last night's dishes.
I could just imagine Albert Steptoe screwing up his nose and picking at a croissant while Harold wore a stripey jumper and said, 'This is the life for me, pater; I was born in the wrong country.'
P.S. If you don't know Steptoe and Son were rag and bone men and their home was a storehouse for their goods. Harold aspired to middle-classness.