Mummy breakfast does not refer to the usual weekday offering of a large mug of caffiene and some toast grabbed with one hand while the other performs essential domestic tasks like signing homework diaries or locating misplaced PE kit. No, it is an entirely different beast alltogether which occurs a handful of times each year.
So this morning, I hared home from the school run, mixed up a batch of apple and apricot muffins and fumigated the downstairs loo. And right on cue, they began to appear - a motley assortment of friends (I am allergic to cliques), who have children who may or may not all know one another, but who vaguely overlap at various different schools or activities or who have homes in the same village.
I lay the proper dining table with a cloth, and my favourite glasses and cups and dishes and we sit and enjoy a leisurely breakfast of juice and fruit salad and yoghurt, croissants and muffins and too many pots of tea to count. And someone might be late because their child was doing an assembly, and someone might have to dash off to an appointment, but the time in between, with the fire lit and a bunch of simple daffodils on the table and snippets of news is precious indeed.