I decided today that the life of the jobbing office-Johnnie-about-town needed spicing up, so at lunchtime instead of wandering aimlessly around the environs of Canary Wharf with my snout buried in a Graham Greene, comme d'habitude, I thought I'd jump on the DLR, and take him to Greenwich for an hour.
Okay, it's not exactly white knuckle stuff in terms of distance and culture shock, but a cee is as good as an ar, as they say. And so it proved to be.
The weather, when I reached my destination, was shithouse (what rotten luck, 'eh?), but I was determined to make the best of it. I ducked into the Waterstone's there, found a comfy chair and ploughed through a couple of chapters. And very convivial it all was too.
My wife and I chunter down to Greenwich at the weekends now and then. It's usually rammed to the gunwales at times like this, and can be a bit of a chore to be honest. It's like being at a festival, but without bands and tempura - i.e. diabolical.
The absence of my best girl by my side also added a tinge of sadness to proceedings, but that's the quintessential point of travel, isn't it, to challenge oneself? Generally, we scoot straight home apres-G and dig out the sherry, and I did rather miss the ritual when the time came to head back to the office. I had to make do with the half truckle of brie and bottle of port that I'd hidden in the stationary cupboard instead.
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