One thing I secretly quite like about colds is the feeling of expelling all the bad stuff when it hits its sniffling snotting peak (usually on day three, for me). Surely this is why the common cold is so often the desert to a dinner of stress…

Maybe this is why I’m thinking of going back to London tomorrow: judging by the amount of snot I’m producing, most of the bad stuff must be out of me, distributed around various toilet bowls and bins, safely discarded with pieces of tissue for company.

Tonight I’m going to sample dinner at the Imperial, mainly because I fear a lack of non-deep fried options outside. So, a feast of English stodge beckons. I’m still ruing not ordering the knickerbocker glory at the Midland. No sign of those here. Just faux footballers’ wives fresh from three hour tanning sessions. Satsumas. Actually I fancy some English stodge now. Time to eat.


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