Just toast for me...

"I'll just have some coffee, that will do me," I murmured pitifully.
"I know what's going to happen. You're going to eat all my food!"
"No, I won't - I'm still feeling rather fragile."
"Serves you right."
How can we loathe those we love? Besides my headache, the price of the full English breakfast had also curbed my appetite. "Maybe toast - that'll be enough for me."
"Let's order some extra sausages," suggested Frances. "That way, you'll have something in case you change your mind."
"I said, a little toast will be fine," I insisted, stubbornly.
"Fine, have toast then. Look, Kate, look! Ponies!" said Frances. Much excitement.
A silvered canopy was whisked away with a flourish, revealing two large, juicy Cumberland sausages. Kate's eyes and smile widened accordingly. A vast platter showed up for Frances, with eggs, sausages, bacon, fried bread, baked beans, and hash browns. Then toast triangles were placed before me, imprisoned within a wire frame.
"Oh, splendid." I tried to sound nonchalant and not as hungry as I was beginning to feel.
"I told you-" said Frances, knowingly.
I grumbled and mumbled as I freed toast from its silver cage. Kate was madly happy with her sausages. Her English side was obviously asserting itself. Then we both started dipping buttered toast into Frances' baked beans. I was now feeling much better and bitterly regretting my cheap moment. Frances felt the same, as Kate and I picked continuously at her plate. But it all worked out. I consumed lashings of buttered toast and marmalade and drank endless cups of excellent coffee. By the time we finished we all felt revived enough for a long nap.
(Note: In the spirit of full disclosure, photo is from the English breakfast-brunch I cooked recently for a couple of close friends who braved the snow rather than cancel. We don't fry bread, sadly.)