Mate!

Lunchtime meeting with lawyers high up in the building. Sat around a table in an airless room talking crap about nonsense to people who appear to be trying to baffle me with their cunning ways. The walls of the building are glass and I can see over the park, the trees in glorious Autumn colours and beyond, the spires of the city. It's the city of Hawksmoore and Wren, but, looking right, it's also the city of Rogers. Then there's the Eye. There's no doubting that it's fabulous but I just wish that they'd stick an enormous playing card in the spokes so that it makes a clakka clakka clakka sound as it goes round.

So there I sit, plotting the chainsaw homicide of nearly everyone else in the room and developing what can only be described as a deep and holy thirst. Mate, I hope that the Stella is cold and the bars are hot, that the jazz is jumping and the city streets are lined with signs saying 'beer this way!'. In short, I am very much looking forward to my visit and, to demonstrate how serious I am, am negotiating with Big Jim for a loan of his sleeping bag. Is this a good idea though? Sleeping in another chaps bag? Perhaps if I get it boil washed first. In dettol.