If common wisdom would have us breakfast like a king, then I have earned my orb and sceptre. For no meal delights me more than my daily breakfast, a bowl of porridge and a slice of toasted Vogel bread.
One who shared my love of breakfast and with whom it would have been delightful to dine was Lucian Freud; gambler, lothario, fighter (he's wasn't above a spot of fisticuffs at the supermarket checkout queue, even at the age of 84) and the greatest portrait painter of the 20th century.
Photo: David Dawson
Every morning he would walk, accompanied by his assistant, David Dawson, who lugged all of the daily papers, to Clarke's Restaurant just a few doors away from his home in Kensington Church Street in Notting Hill. Sally Clarke's restaurant didn't do breakfast but she made an exception for Freud who turned the empty dining room into his own personal salon, with a different guest each day - his bookmaker, art dealer, lovers and friends etc, each invited to join him for his porridge, pain au raison or scrambled egg and toast, all washed down with a pot of Earl Grey.
For a decade, each Saturday he was joined by Geordie Greig, the former editor of Tatler, who has now written an extraordinary new book. As a portrait of an artist as a young and old man it goes beneath the surface oils to the canvas and wood that holds together the grand edifice. Lust, hate and ambition were the core components of Lucian Freud who fathered as many as 23 children, nurtured feuds for decades and strived to pin down the soul with his paintbrush.
I love his work, with its mottled, fleshy colours, particularly the expressions on his subject's faces as if they had suddenly glimpsed the reality of their lives.
He's my cup of Earl Grey.