I must remember to be more wary about mixing jet lag with copious amounts of mulled wine and non-mulled wine–an old friend hosted Christmas drinks Friday night.
Currently breakfasts are proving challenging, as even waking at 9 a.m. means that for my body clock it’s 3 a.m. (U.S. time) and hence I emerge into the waking world in an utterly befuddled state.
Throw in an unfamiliar kitchen layout, also, and it takes 5 minutes to find a teaspoon to stir my tea, and 10 minutes of standing in my pyjamas, mouth open like a drugged-up goldfish, trying to decide what to eat: Branflakes or porridge.
Travelling on the London Underground, it’s reassuring to be reminded that though British reticence doesn’t lead to much chatter when traversing through the bowels on London, it at least results in plenty of heads buried in newspapers and books.
We may have lost our Empire but not our love of anti-social reading habits, and hallelujah for that.