However much I might want to, it’s less and less viable for me to spend my time sleeping. Although it doesn’t look any better (or indeed any different) from the other day, the leg is no longer screaming quite so loudly when I poke it over the side of the bed.
So in the morning I successfully dither and sleep and in the afternoon I go up to Tufnell Park to pick up a brief for a CD cover. It makes a change to get out of the house. There’s little pain in the leg, the only problem being that I’m a little light-headed and incoherent. I have to explain that I’ve been ill and that I’m not like this all the time except maybe I am.
I had spoken to Romany about getting a ringer for the jam tonight, but having received no message I go along anyway, where I discover there is a ringer and there was a message, so I trundle home again with the stuff.
I stumble across this 1827 map of London: fascinating, if only because it shows that the building I live in was there in 1827.