happy accident

the toaster failed spectacularly this morning: loud pfzzzttt, a flash of blue light, a sharp bang.

toasting my bread under the grill instead, i was reminded (a) of how superior that kind of toast is, and (b) of childhood holidays in rented caravans: on the first morning, mum would do bacon and eggs, and the smells of the gas flames, the bacon, the hot fat, the toasting bread, the milky tea -- as well as the underlying caravan smells of damp and moth balls -- those smells live on in my olfactory memory, waiting to drag me back to those happy days.

so...grilled toast is my proustian madeleine, innit?