IHOP

It is invigorating to rise early on a luminous winter's morning and go about one's business — in this case a business as mundane as taking the car in for service. Yes, the freeway is clogged with workaday traffic, but the air is so clear you can hardly imagine any contaminants hanging about, since there's nothing disagreeable that's visible to the naked eye.

What we find attractive are the long shadows of wintertime, the shards of sunlight dancing on automobile chrome, the serene purple outlines of the distant hills, the cerulean blue overhead.

We have breakfast at the International House of Pancakes — the senior special. Decent coffee, crisp strips of bacon, hash brown potatoes, and toast. The menu tells us that the eggs are 'farm fresh', the hash browns 'golden'. Other clichéd coffee-shop sobriquets liven up the menu — 'garden fresh salad', 'cooked to perfection', 'fresh-squeezed'.

So what if they are overused, these restaurant terms. Who cares? The day is fine. The young Asian girl who serves us is gracious and attentive. We eat our breakfast and so we are ready for whatever the day has to offer.