I’d planned to spend most of my morning queuing in August rain in front of the French Consulate in order to apply for a new passport, my current one having been severely battered in soiled soapy washing machine water making it unacceptable for the stringent US Customs. However, sleep deprivation had the better of me and I had to text a colleague of mine – the chauffeur of the day, Afnan – that I would give London, South Ken, and Cromwell Rd a miss altogether.
In lieu of capital excitement and underground thrills & chills, I stayed nice and snug at home while rain overtook the already-soaked streets of Ipswich. What a dire August! I’m sure one a many oldies were already brewing around the idea they hadn’t seen such a poor summer since QE II’s coronation (and you do need oldies to remember that).
And speaking of brewing, we had no alternative but to hit a pub at night to avoid homeitis, a severe condition related to one’s buttocks remaining in the same sofa position for too long. Now Ipswich may not have the glamour of Mayfair nor the spicyness of Soho but it does boast quite a few decent pubs among which the Dove (nothing to do with soap, need I add?) where we shared a few pints with the local Spaniards, the odd German, Hong Kongese, Jordanian and myself.
And then, well, we simply called it a night.