It’s strange how actions can be tied to a place. Like, I’ve stayed the night at my parents’ because I don’t have my car at the moment and using the public transport to get back to my home isn’t very convenient seeing as they only run until about 8pm.

From when I was little, I’ve always known Sunday to have a Sunday breakfast. Breadrolls, home made hot chocolate, soft boiled eggs. It’s a bit of a tradition at my parents’ house. Now that I live on my own it’s not something I do out of my own accord. Maybe some weeks of I feel like it, but it’s not something I go out of my way to do.

My parents are on holiday right now, so it’s just me and one of my brothers right now. I’ve slept very little (my brother has a bit of a skewed sleeping pattern and usually games with his friends until late into the am’s), I’m tired as all hell, very grumpy. And yet, when I woke up this morning in my childhood home, and eventhough I’m the only one awake, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind to make the trip to the bakery where we’ve gone to for years, get some bread so my family as bread for tomorrow and breadrolls to eat with a soft boiled egg and have myself a Sunday breakfast.

It just feels right.