I read with barely concealed horror yesterday of the arrival of the UK's first cereal cafe in London.

The Cereal Killer cafe, naturally, will open next month and will be dedicated solely to the munching of cereal with a choice of 100 varieties and 13 kinds of milk (who knew?) to choose from. The menu will also extend to toast and Pop Tarts, apparently.

For me, cereal munching involves a whole lot of undignified slurping and milk dribbling down chins and is best kept behind closed doors.

Cereal, after all, is the only foodstuff which can legitimately be scoffed whilst wearing nightwear and, for me, has too many associations with shameful, slothful afternoons when it replaces lunch if the cupboard is bare and going to the shops just seems like a chore too far.

Like wearing pyjamas and brushing your teeth, eating breakfast should be carried out in the comfort and privacy of your own home. It is not an eating out experience. Breakfast is a time of transition from confused bed head to land of the living, it's not a social occasion.

I don't move in the kind of circles where breakfast meetings are a regular occurrence so, excuse my greenness here, but are you actually meant to eat, or just sit salivating on the croissants?

I still shudder when I remember doing an interview at a company and being invited to meet the entire board over breakfast. Despite the fact that the table was heaving with goodies, nobody was actually eating. Unfortunately, this realisation only struck when I was invited to introduce myself having just wedged half a chocolate donut into my, er, cakehole.

As all eyes turned to me, I furiously tried to choke down my sugar-filled treat while belatedly noting that no-one else had nibbled a crumb.

During another interview recently I ended up initiating my own impromptu breakfast meeting when I was almost felled by hunger pangs half way through proceedings.

Normally I'd press on regardless, being a pro, but the interview was being conducted within the tight confines of the cabin of a tug boat. The sound of my gurgling stomach reverberating round the small space was putting me off my stride, so I apologised to my bemused interviewee and broke out my Emergency Banana.

Given that we were already sitting knee to knee, the poor man had no choice but to carry on talking as I wolfed it down literally under his nose, with all the dignity one can muster whilst chomping on a chimpanzee's snack of choice.