Tuesday fry-up fun.

It used to be a Monday really when the weekend’s food left-overs were chucked in a frying-pan with a cob of dripping and re-heated to eke-out yet another staple British meal – or two.
As the country literally fries in thirty-odd centigraded degrees of sunshine I thank the bloody lord I’m a ‘fry-up’ recalling wrinkly.
Soon the whole place will be relying on such cost-effective fare as the cost of simply pitching a semi in the once proud isles and living off the fruits of the land (coal, iron, tin, lead, spuds, corn, cars, ships) will be a total non-starter. Out of that top o’ me head list only the backyard growing of a few (well hidden from revenuer’s eyes!) potatoes is still regarded, not perhaps as viable, but as at least something to shove in a fry-up that you can, when starving, eat.
All other available cash will be systematically ploughed back into the drains of europe. The financial printing presses won’t be able to keep up!
But for those like me, remembering the green fields of England and the gentle Monday stench of re-heating bits of Sunday pork or well-done beef, mixed affordably with old and now mashed roast-spuds – even perhaps an egg – I shove-in today’s picture of a one time common sight in England.
A field of cows.
You got milk from them to put on your cornflakes, which they used to call, The Sunshine Breakfast!

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