There’s a suspicious whiff of cheese in Bergman and I can’t for the life of me work out why. I’m sitting inside waiting for the text from Lou to say she’s done at The New Oxford Playhouse, and when I get it I’ll take her back to the hotel and we will both fall asleep like bricks. She’s been working like a train and I was up far too late last night burning the midnight oil like old times with dear old Nathan.
I stopped at a little Sardinian pizza place in Gloucester Green just before it closed.
Really good doughy cheesy pizza which has done nothing to make me feel more awake. The food options there have always been brilliant – student towns can be like that. Back in the nineties it was incredible sandwich shops at the forefront, pushing the boundaries at a time when cheese and ham was exotic if there was mustard on it. They would do Pastrami and Emmenthal in a ciabatta and it was like a revelation. And so many questions when you made your order. “Butter, mayo or both?” Ah the heady days.
There’s my call to pick up Lou
—
We are back at Lou’s lovely hotel. Checkout tomorrow at noon and there’s a spa. She isn’t starting work until elevenish tomorrow so we are going to potter in the morning. I’m pretty coldy at the moment as is to be expected at this time of year. Better by far to be sick now than once Carol is open.
Friday morning will probably be the last time I see Lou this year, so I plan to make the best of it.
AlBarclay 