The eggs came, his scrambled, with ham, hers fried. He spread his roll thickly with butter. There was just a little shack, and no one else around for miles, and only eggs to eat, fried in olive oil and with a drop of vinegar. I remember exactly how they tasted - I haven't had eggs like that since. They were glorious eggs - like these.
Taste brings things back so vividly.
For there was the dog, weaving with slow, hesitant steps across the road. There was more traffic now, but just at that moment the road was empty. Just a dog, crossing the road. He might have been someone who had contemplated a walk but now was quite happy to abandon the idea and stay cosily at home, because of the rain. They were yellow and wide and quite mad.