Sunday 4th November

The problem with having a normal Saturday night out like normal people do, is that you then end up having a normal Sunday like normal people do, in which the entire day is effectively written off as you wake up late and bumble around with a fuzzy head getting little or nothing done. It didn't help that, after Tom had caught the tube home last night, Brian and I, sailing along on the Good Ship Beerswillage, felt obliged to make port briefly in the Walsingham on our way home. This, as it turned out, was the wrong thing to do.

The morning then largely passed us by, but we were just about able to stagger over to Masterchef, the hilariously inappropriately named caff round the corner, where one can indulge in all manner of vast cooked breakfast combinations before your brain wakes up sufficiently to stop you. Although only about a year old, Masterchef, with its red vinyl bench seats, formica-topped tables and big mugs of sweet tea, manages to capture all that is and was great about the traditional English breakfast caff and is the perfect place to find oneself after a night out.

For the remainder of the day I found myself largely on the sofa having a snooze.