I’ve spent the day off work, sick. I have a peculiar cold, induced bizarrely enough by a rancid pint of Greene King IPA which I foolish drank too much of last Thursday. I didn’t drink all of the pint – I shouldn’t have drunk any of it, so foul and bitter and evil it tasted – but because somebody else had bought it for me, I felt the need to politely persist, despite its clearly vile flavour. In the end, my stiff upper lip gave way, and I pushed it aside. The flavour stayed with me for the rest of the evening, through two perfectly nice pints of Staropramen and a meal of sausages and mash, but I was nevertheless surprised to see my whole upper body covered in a rather nasty, hot, red rash when the time came to go to bed. I can’t begin to explain it, but I blame the beer entirely. Or more specifically, I blame the lazy bastard bar men at the otherwise reasonably pleasant pub, Inn 1888 just off Marylebone High Street. If you’re going to serve ‘real ale’ you should at least learn to keep it properly. At the very least, you should know how not to let it get so bad that it causes your customers to break out in a rash. Its a lesson I certainly will have learnt whenever it is I decide to set up a pub of my own.
Anyway, the rash died down, but left me feeling awful – feverish, achey, and with a mean sore throat. I soldiered in to the office on Friday, mostly because I had a lunch date I wanted to keep, but I made such a sorry sight that even my usually unconcerned boss commented on it. It gave me the welcome opportunity to tell a few more people about my poisoning, and to make sure that the reputation of Inn 1888 was thoroughly stained.
I felt a little better over the weekend, but the prospect of a shivery day in the office made me decide to stay in bed all day. Well not quite all day – I wandered out for some fresh air around lunchtime and soon wished I didn’t. I can’t believe its August. London in the summer time can be so gloriously uplifting, but on days like today you find yourself questioning why you bother living here in the first place.
There’s only one thing for it. An escape – which is why we’re off to Copenhagen for the weekend. The fact that the weather over there is forecast to be even worse than in London – not to mention the imminent baggage handler’s strike – is going to have to be overlooked. In the summer time in London, the only sensible thing is to get out.