The Baillie Bugle

I seem to have caught a summer cold from somewhere.
Apologies to anyone I've shared it with!

Apologies also for the lateness of the previous couple of posts - they've been sitting on my PDA for the last few days waiting for me to fix up so that they're journal-ready. My proofreader is on holiday this week, so I have to be twice (if not thrice) as careful!

This morning I struggled to find somewhere to eat breakfast before 9am on West Hampstead High Street, saw Ken Livingston and son (who seemed to be having similar problems by the looks of things)

Ouch - I've just burned by mouth on my coffee.
You'll have to excuse me while I order some fresh orange to soothe it.

So anyway - back in Mile End I'm sampling the greasy fry up No. 1 option from the Step In Cafe, in the hope that it'll give me the strength to see the day through.
I'm a complete wimp when it comes to being sick.
Just like all men, apparently.

I had to endure a rush hour commuters' journey to get here this morning, and it has doubled my resolve to write. I can't go back to that!
The Central Line between eight and nine is as close to hell as I ever want to come.

I saw something that tickled me on the way to breakfast – a car abandoned at the side of Burdett Road after having a very nasty bump, it’s front caved in like a sock full of eggs (to steal a simile from a book about a Big Foot). The funny thing was that some cheeky bugger had already stuck an advertising leaflet for the local garage under the windscreen wiper.