Two eggs, one tomato, and a quarter of a red onion. Chewy and delicious, my breakfast before I set off for LBC Towers.
I had been up doing a telephone consultation from 7.30 so by the time it got to 9.00 I was more hungry than a hungry man from Hungryfordshire in the Hungryford countryside.
Then the TFL buses and trains got me to Oxford Street where I wandered down Carnaby Street, down Brewer Street and through Berwick Street market.
I nearly bought three tons of fruit and veg but decided against it preferring to buy a pack of six large century pears from China Town.
Boston, the boy wonder shouted stories at me and we ended up with:
Bad Nurseries.
Public school sportsmen.
And photography with RANKIN.
I met him years ago when he was married to an actress I had known since she was a foetus.
They came, visited and I took a turn and refused to cook. He ended up making a cheese sandwich in the kitchen whilst I stayed moody in the garden.
The question is do I remind him about the cheese buttie?
Will he remember?
Had I known he was going to turn into RANKIN would I have prepared the best bouillabaisse in Britain in preparation for his ballistic rise to supersnapdom?
Whatever he was lovely.
That’s it, if my masseuse isn’t delivering a baby she will be delivering me from pain this evening.
You enjoy your evening too.
cu2morrer