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Monday: getting off the train from Folkestone to London, gazed admiringly at the French touring bicyclists with their Rapha kits and immaculate touring bicycles. I wished I was them, the preening tossers. Had some time to kill and walked around leafy London with an inflamed lower leg.
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The Zedwell Hotel is rather a bit of marketing genius – it’s not just a collection of windowless cells in a former underground car park, they’re distraction-free cocoons that are actually optimised for a good night’s sleep. I didn’t know about the building’s history at the time, but come to think of it, it explains why stumbling lost along the corridors felt so much like a poorly lit version of the The Parking Garage episode of Seinfeld.
Notwithstanding the wastefulness of washing so many towels and bedsheets so often, a hotel is probably Better than a car park. But given that the fellow who owns it is a bit of an arse, I will probably never return.
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Tuesday: was mildly inconvenienced by whatever they were filming in Trafalgar Square. Missed a train, and the later train got held up and eventually curtailed by signalling problems, stranding us in Stowmarket. But the shared experience engendered a sense of camaraderie and/or blitz spirit, and people started talking to each other. A pretty boring story, sorry.
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Hot cross buns 2025. In a bizarre bit of wanton disorganisation, I had to go back and forth to the shop to get flour, then a lemon, then table salt. (Actually I used the salt grinder instead of going for the third time, which was fine, well the salt was quite coarse but you know what I mean.)
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A long Easter weekend in the Liverpool City Region. Got sunburnt in Bootle, and stuff.