I’m not a large fan of breakfast. Or mornings. Every day I awaken earlier than I want to, often with the infernal sun blazing into my face from the bedroom window. Every night I lower the blinds on that window, but my dear Millie raises them when she so cheerfully wakes up at 4 AM. Sometimes I still occasionally grumble and protest to her about this inconsiderate rudeness, but my complaints do not move her. With the awful sun cooking my brains, I squint and marvel that I’m still alive for another day, then I slowly drag myself out of bed to a soundtrack of unharmonious creaks and pops from stiff joints and tendons over ever-aching bones. Eventually I creak my way to the kitchen, where Millie has kindly placed a bowl, a spoon, and my box of Grape-Nuts cereal before my seat at the kitchen table. By this time, Millie has long ago finished whatever mysterious breakfast that she eats, and she discreetly keeps herself away from me until almost lunch time (only an hour or two after my breakfast). I am very grouchy in the morning, and don’t enjoy the company of others at this time. Never have. Cheery morning people, especially whistlers, should be exiled to Siberia. Or maybe even shot.