Lest you get the idea from the post about my cold that I'm ridiculously superstitious, let me reassure you that I'm a modern man who is fully aware that colds are caused by viruses, not by casting clouts.
Last night, in the absence of echinacea, I doctored myself with a fiery curry and generous amounts of a rather rough Kentucky bourbon. This morning, I find I'm feeling less like a person at death's door. Indeed, I felt well enough later last night to post a longish piece about Cafe Society, as I hope you've seen. In his comment, the Frootbat hints at surprise that I remember so much about those balmy days. Actually, it's quite easy if you simply download a paragraph or two from a disc marked FANZINE, typed nearer the time.
I'm pretty sure that I picked up this cold virus at the market in Tynemouth Metro station on Saturday. I stayed at Patsy123's place on Friday night, and when she went off to the Metro station at 7.30 to help a friend set up her stall, I did my part by keeping out of the way in bed. So it was, that by the time she came back to look for me, I'd had a leisurely breakfast and watched an exciting march-past by the TA, complete with military band. I expect they were demonstrating the effectiveness of our coastal defences to the Enlarged Europeans still lurking offshore in their container lorries.
It was a gloriously hot day, as good as any I've experienced abroad. As we walked up the main street, the crowds were making the most of the weather, and I felt like I was in a modern day Donald McGill postcard. There were lots of fat women in tight dresses with screaming kids, queues for the fish and chip shop, abandoned ice cream cornets lying on the pavement waiting for someone to slip, and - the modern aspect - scantily-clad girls with their shaven-headed, tattooed paramours, sinking lagers.
It felt good to be in England.