Under a penny farthing
Sleeping on floor was much better than last time, and felt fine after a several cups of coffee and chatting.
Mum enjoying the package that Toby and Romy had sent her containing, amongst other things, wool made of 30% sea cell. Much discussion about what sea cell could be, but the wool was lovely.
I undertook a bout of manly and vigorous vacuum cleaning. Then, after I'd taken a couple of business calls, off to Stanmore and had some pub grub. Mason strangely keen on pubs these days due to the fact they are no longer full of smoke. I keep telling him he is becoming English. Sadly, though, the pub was busy and strangely loutish today, the food was poor, and an insufferable penetrating-voiced bore on the next table grated on my nerves.
It was almost a relief to leave for a spot of shopping where mum bought a digital thermometer. Then I enjoyed the luxury of a short nap. After a reviving lemon tea, I was walked to the station in a suprisingly springy fashion by Mum.
I stopped in Hampstead to meet Bob, and we had a drink in The Flask, in Flask Walk. An ancient haunt of ours and Carl's and it felt nostalgic to return. Built on speedy greyhoundish lines, the Mad Dog looked even more annoyingly fit and slim than usual. He did show me however the secret of his success: a very small Tupperware container into which each day he stuffs a mix of lean chicken and Quarmish mix of chili based vegetables. All about counting calories, he said sagaciously. All this talk quickly sharpened our appetites and we were soon in a splendid Indian restaurant called The Bombay Bicycle Club sat under a penny farthing, and busy with our knives and forks.
Bob and I parted company early, and just after Mum had called with news of potential disruption on the Tube network tonight due to a booze party protesting against the altogther sensible ban of boozing on the tube. I met none of the revellers fortunately, and contented myself with listening to a programme about the Black Death on my iPod.
Sleeping on floor was much better than last time, and felt fine after a several cups of coffee and chatting.
Mum enjoying the package that Toby and Romy had sent her containing, amongst other things, wool made of 30% sea cell. Much discussion about what sea cell could be, but the wool was lovely.
I undertook a bout of manly and vigorous vacuum cleaning. Then, after I'd taken a couple of business calls, off to Stanmore and had some pub grub. Mason strangely keen on pubs these days due to the fact they are no longer full of smoke. I keep telling him he is becoming English. Sadly, though, the pub was busy and strangely loutish today, the food was poor, and an insufferable penetrating-voiced bore on the next table grated on my nerves.
It was almost a relief to leave for a spot of shopping where mum bought a digital thermometer. Then I enjoyed the luxury of a short nap. After a reviving lemon tea, I was walked to the station in a suprisingly springy fashion by Mum.
I stopped in Hampstead to meet Bob, and we had a drink in The Flask, in Flask Walk. An ancient haunt of ours and Carl's and it felt nostalgic to return. Built on speedy greyhoundish lines, the Mad Dog looked even more annoyingly fit and slim than usual. He did show me however the secret of his success: a very small Tupperware container into which each day he stuffs a mix of lean chicken and Quarmish mix of chili based vegetables. All about counting calories, he said sagaciously. All this talk quickly sharpened our appetites and we were soon in a splendid Indian restaurant called The Bombay Bicycle Club sat under a penny farthing, and busy with our knives and forks.
Bob and I parted company early, and just after Mum had called with news of potential disruption on the Tube network tonight due to a booze party protesting against the altogther sensible ban of boozing on the tube. I met none of the revellers fortunately, and contented myself with listening to a programme about the Black Death on my iPod.
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