Potential transit woes disintegrated when Russ, in his usual Russness, decided that he felt like picking me up from the airport at 6.30 am, driving me across London and hefting my very heavy suitcase everywhere it needed to be hefted. My best friend rocks.
After unpacking and showering off 13 hours worth of flight lint, and lunch with Mark at Newman House, I’m here in the computer room when I really should be at the bank trying to explain that I couldn’t possibly have spent £30 in Harts the Grocer in July 2000, not having been in the country at the time (long dismal customer service failure story which I’ll spare you). But what the hell, it’s a beautiful day, I’m high on lack of sleep and London love, and the best part of the day hasn’t even come yet.
City, please release my yuppie scum punctually at five. It’s been a bloody long month and a half without him.