This may have something to do with a longstanding affection for Arthur Dent (of space-traveling, hitchiking, towel-finding, tea-searching fame) or the fact that I knit a willing suspension of reality into the fabric of my daily life, and breakfast in bed is a wonderful thing. It allows me to pretend that I'm a princess in a lonely stone castle, or in Paris, in a flat with a balcony over the Seine, or something equally romantic. Or that I'm waking up on a mattress in the middle of the floor huddled beneath some quilts, and there's not that much food, but there's some tea and a bit of bread for toast, and a dog-eared book close to my fingers for snuggling and reading and toast-munching purposes.
