Not At The White Bear

So, as a result of aforementioned high probability of my expiring through coughing (and after being so rude about the Richmond audience for their high phlegm factor), I have been forced to postpone tonight’s trip to the White Bear in Kennington, as due to its shoe-box like dimensions, I doubt either the actors or my fellow audience members would appreciate having me in the front row. So instead of Timon Of Athens my night now involves large amounts of pasta and perhaps the last couple of chapters of a William Boyd.

Also at the risk of becoming one of the seemingly endless numbers of people blogging about tube-iquette, but having little else to write about today bar Strepsil consumption, you’ll have to bear with me. On the Northern Line this morning I collided with a chap on the stairs and we did that mutual “whoops-sorry” shrug-and-smile thing, as per usual. And then he gave me a little, almost affectionate, pat on the shoulder, before walking away. I admit I may have been looking particularly sniffly and pathetic but this is a new one on me. It is also, of course, a massive improvement on the slightly sozzled middle-aged chap who gave me a strange from-behind bear-hug a couple of weeks back as I made my way home from the Young Vic, slurring: “Sorry, I just had to touch you,” into my ear before staggering off towards Lavender Hill. That was just odd and unpleasant. And so unexpected I didn’t have the chance to employ my elbows in any useful way whatsoever.