I'm extremely fond of breakfast but summertime presents its own challenges.  As an inveterate oatmeal eater during those grey times of the year, once the berries come in, I'm longing to give in and feast, but somehow, slathering them over a piping hot bowl of porridge just doesn't cut it. I was wrestling with that dilemma recently when I recalled my much ballyhooed summer of 1975.  I was young, I was impetuous and I was driving my parent's completely bonkers in every way imaginable.

I was also, to their despair, living in a squat in London's Belgravia.  Think "Upstairs,Downstairs"  generally and Eaton Square more specifically.  With a gang of boarding school pals, I was inhabiting the glamorous, though vacant home of Bernie Cornfelt, ne'er-do-well financier and sometime boyfriend of Victoria Principal.  Ole' Bernie  had conveniently gone on the lam, leaving us to live it up in his digs.  That is, until we were supplanted later that fall, by a band of Hell's Angels who were altogether bigger and badder than we were, even in our wildest dreams.  Alas, that, is, as they say, another story.