Christmas Breakfast

I am trying to book some place for Christmas breakfast. I thought that judging by the people buying very thriftily here and there, it wouldn't be a problem. Wrong. It is. That's already four places fully booked. Where did the credit crunch go all of a sudden? I know I should be pleased because this means it will be good for the economy, but it's leaving me stranded. And I like Christmas breakfast and I've never broken the tradition. We'll see, my other half is trying desperate measures and if he cannot sweet talk someone into putting one extra table than nobody can. I certainly can't. I'm bad with phones. The minute I dial a number I break into a sweat, and the minute someone answers I turn into an extremely shy wallflower. Him... you'd think you were talking to the President of the United States. And Him... he gets results. We're a funny couple, and it works, because together we create equilibrium. Something like the see-saw thing, except that I have never liked see saws because it never works with anybody else. I get stuck firmly to the ground while the other person concerned gets so mad at me for keeping him in mid-air for quite a long time. But Him... he could really sell ice to the Eskimos and sand to the people inhabiting the Sahara desert, if there are any people living there to begin with. That's all him. Me... I couldn't even sell the biggest diamond for a couple of Euro. Or perhaps it's because I would keep this biggest diamond all to myself. And although you are constantly sharing everything when you're a twin, seeing you don't even get to have your own birthday cake, no, I don't share. Not where diamonds are concerned, and not when the other half is concerned. No I don't share my man, I don't even share my twin. I suffer from the dreaded tom-cat territorial behaviour. It's all mine. And talking about breakfasts, woe betide anybody who thinks it's funny to try and steal just one hash off my plate. Or one miserable baked bean. Lay off or you'll be having a sharp fork stuck into your arteries in no time at all. I don't even like sharing my bed very much. For one, I like a lot of space, secondly, I take a lot of space, and thirdly I don't like anybody rolling around and waking me up. Space invaders are not for me. Except if the space invader can cook me a Christmas breakfast to perfection. Then maybe I would think about it, don't get your hopes up high, I'm saying I might just consider it... perhaps it's why I actually share a bed with my other half, because he is so good in the culinary department.