It has been years since I moved out of Mum’s house, but living independently – and living well – continues to elude me. Without her watchful gaze reminding me to take an umbrella as I run out the door, or her daily reminders to take my iron tablets, I frequently find myself wandering the streets, drenched and slightly light-headed, begging the universe: “Please, send me some nuts.”
Even though legally I am an adult, I still don’t know how to take care of myself. I could tell you it is because of my generation’s hardships, how our mental and physical health is taking an endless battering due to insecure housing and work. That would be true. The latest research has found that millennials face an unhealthy middle age.
But I must take responsibility for my actions, too. Society does not make me grate half a block of cheddar over my Super Noodles; that is my choice and mine alone. This vicious (and delicious!) cycle of extended adolescence must end if I want to live to a ripe old age. I want to be healthy enough to play with my future children in the park, to guide them through this crazy world, and then, when they are 30 years old, to phone them at work to ask about why the Freeview box – or, as it will be then, the telepathy-powered robot – is not working.
To start, I need to master breakfast. I am a flat-Earther when it comes to this hallowed meal. I simply don’t believe breakfast is as important as everyone harps on. If someone told me it was a conspiracy by Mr Kellogg, I would believe them. Frankly, I have always found that rooster on the Corn Flakes box a bit sinister, but I am willing to give breakfast a go.
Putting aside the biggest issue, which is waking up earlier than you absolutely have to, merely selecting breakfast is a minefield. Cereals are full of sugar, granola is a punishment, avocados are too expensive and eggs leave you with an overwhelming amount of choice. I would happily eat leftovers for breakfast (brinner?), which, as science has proved, is often more delicious, but having any available is hit or miss.
Which leaves toast: the better-looking brother of bread, the shining knight of a convenient breakfast. Toast doesn’t need a plate; it is its own plate, for jam and butter and other heavenly things that can be eaten on the go. Could this humble slice be the thing to set me on the path to adulthood?
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