Early morning rain.

I woke up early next morning and came out and made a pot of tea and took it out on the verandah and didn't read the paper. Light rain was falling but it was warm and the low sun was below the clouds and the green Gippsland hills were fluorescent. No-one else was awake. Let's leave sleeping children lie. And this early solitude is gold. The trees on the slope across the valley were heavy with rain and you could see them dripping with each breath of a slight breeze.

Later, there were bacon smells on the air and toasting bread and brewing coffee and the sounds small elephants make when they wake up and face the day. I went inside. We sat at the kitchen table and ate bacon and French toast and drank coffee. Tracy's mother told us the boys had enjoyed the storm and enjoyed the blackout even more; but Thomas had seen the lights go out and the candles lit and had wanted to know where the cake was. Exactly, I replied. I thought the same thing last night up on the hill.

There's something new: the boys like French toast. Well-buttered bread dipped in plenty of beaten egg and fried golden brown and then topped with rashers of bacon cooked until crisp. Is there a better breakfast?