A great British breakfast

Our first 24 hours with M, the French student, have gone well.
I met him from the coach (once I'd established the right person) and then we went for a pizza before joining a load of teenagers for bowling in town.
The ten pin bowling arena is a hellhole of blaring music, bouncers, flashing lights and overweight parents outside in the smoking area (no offence) swearing at their own children. Classy. Vicky Pollard springs to mind.
My daughter didn't want my hubby and I to stay (she's at the "you're so embarrassing") stage.
So we watched Croatia against Turkey at the local pub (on the screen I mean) and I people watched for a couple of hours.
This morning my hubby cooked a great British breakfast; eggs, organic bacon and sausages, beans and toast.
M commented that the food was good, but he had heard that cooked English breakfasts were awful. Well they are in many a cafe or service station, as many of us know. In fact, there's nothing worse than a greasy fry up.

Our language has turned to Franglais, which in the case of my hubby is a dodgy mix of Inspector Clouseau style French mixed with Liverpool.
Also, we find ourselves telling silly stories, like the one about the peregrine falcon that my hubby D took 20 long minutes over.
Martin was spellbound.