remember that other time when I would only read the backs of cereal boxes

Even Squeaker was tired by Sunday evening.

We'd started today with a hastily improvised progressive rock jam session that only the very hardy could listen to in playback, using one microphone, with the players moving nearer or further away in an analogue semblance of mixing the sound.



Then an extended French breakfast with milky coffee, croissant and fromage.

I think it may have already been early afternoon.

Later we travelled onward to an impromptu wine tasting and then eventually to The Duchess for some pub food, where we chatted in the assembling shadows from the adjacent Battersea Power Station.