Of Puddings and Buses

I've not been feeling well today. A bit hot and cold. Phlegm! I'll say no more. Still, after a dose of Lemsip, I felt well enough to take myself off to the National Gallery to meet up with Long Juan. We were there to hear Dominic Sandbrook give a talk on David Bailey.

"Nobody better embodied the spirit of the sixties than David Bailey. In this amusing and enlightening talk, Dominic Sandbrook, historian, broadcaster and columnist....."

And very amusing and enlightening it was too; a discussion which had to be continued in the Royal Cafe. Well, I was going to head to Spier's after that to meet the boatie crones. I just missed the bus; next was 15 minutes; I hung about and it eventually arrived. Off the bus, I trotted into Spier's. No crones! Bah. I didn't hang about. Back to the stop to just miss the bus back up town. Fuckit. Only another 10 minutes. Off the bus, starving, and with the clear vision of a white pudding in my head, I stepped into the L'Alba D'oro. Hurrah - one pudding on view above the frier. I'll have a white pudding supper, says I. I'm afraid it's taken says the youth behind the counter. He just ordered it - and he nods towards a big black fellah just settling into a seat. You ordered the last white pudding, I say to him, with mock (but real) outrage. He looks at me as if I'm slightly nuts. The youth says I can have one if I'm prepared to wait 10 minutes. Smoked Sausage Supper it is. I've waited long enough.