After fighting off the fanciful urge for an alcoholic breakfast this morning, my first real test came at lunchtime in a pub a few miles from home. It was a lovely drive through the Northants countryside, big dramatic skies threatening rain but the sun prevailed, glimpses of sheep, a tractor still and silent in a field.
A lovely array of real ales greeted me, the pump handles seeming to be extra sleek and shiny at this testing time, subliminally chanting “try me, try me”. I had a cup of tea. Oh whither the erstwhile rock and roll lifestyle? It has come to this, a cup of tea and a baked potato.
This interlude was not without its own delights, leaving aside the rather loud conversation between two women which included worthy advice on dietary and hygienic matters. I wish I had my notebook at the time so I could have captured such gems as the observation that it is as bad to eat too much as it is to eat too little, and that showers can be an acceptable alternative to baths.
My attention was drawn to a gentleman sitting close to the open fire, a privileged position, who carefully placed a pair of glasses on top of the glasses he was already wearing. It is so important to be properly focused on your French onion soup.