Sunday breakfast, and the only rule is that the pancakes have to stack. A pancake swings over the plate and you tap once to let it go. There is no snapping and no forgiveness: it lands where it lands, whatever hangs over the edge is lost to the dog, and the stack leans a little more every time you are off. Land one dead centre and you keep the full width, get a pat of butter and a run of syrup, and the whole table cheers. The higher the stack, the faster the swing. Nobody has ever been allowed to eat one this tall.