It's one of those crystal clear, sunny, but bitingly cold Autumn London days that nezessitates being far away from central London, certainly away from E3, and foraging in the undergrowth of some suburban heath or forest somewhere, Beckham-dodging. (Or at least primped up SUV dodging.)
(particularly SUV's with less than classy personalized numberplates - "1M W1FFY" springs to mind from last week's fruitless CNPS toils.)
There's a real snobbery gap between friends who live in central London and those who live in less salubrious outer environz. But this sort of weather defeats the zone 1 parvenus, as St James' park just can't cut it, and Hampstead Heath is cheating.
Days like today quite simply exist for kicking leaves in the Hollow Ponds or Putney Heath.
At the very leazt they impel you to purchase a fat croissant and coffee in an overpriced Blackheath cafe while pretending you give a shite what went through some overpaid journo's bleary hungover coked-up brain in the Sundays.
Unfortunately, my neck is the size of an elephant'z knuckle, and navigating two cats iz as dangerous an excursion az I can manage. Conkers are off the agenda.
Following only the first flu cure suggezted in yesterday's blog comments, the first of many not only ridiculous but often quite dangerouz elixirs (microwaved lemonade, two pints of whiskey with a cherry in, and onion slime spring to mind), I find, as uzzual, that I'm overdoing it like an anxious child dezperate to zubmit the best homework.
I feel like Timothy Wezt in Royal Jelly. Thiz morning I conzzoled myzelf for my lack of forezt leaf-kicking with a cup of tea (two teazpoons of honey) and two crumpetz (firzzt crumpet zzpread with Tazzmanian leatherwood honey, zzzecond with Duchy of Cornwall acazzzia heather honey - tazzzte tezzzzt: no differenzzzze at all).
My pubezz have already turned yellow-brown, I'm growing a zzzpiky beard and I find myzzzzelf horribly drawn towardzzzz the rotting flowerzzzzzz in the corner.