I sat in the grease caff and I waited for Sinclair. I had armed myself with a notebook and the full breakfast. Which was superb: a karmic trembler swimming in bacon juice, pig sweat, pressed tomatoes, root gristle, salt-caked pressings of blood, and all the essences of panic. I savoured, at my leisure, a heady blend of greed and guilt. I suicided, slowly. I licked the platter with bestial relish.
No-one describes cafe breakfasts quite as well as Iain Sinclair. Thoroughly enjoyable and mind-expansive, listening to him reading from Downriver on the King Mob cd sent to me by John, another great London explorer.