More time in the Frozen wastes.
I am vexed to say I am an not at my usual hotel. I am having to stay at one of those ghastly chains. You know the sort - every room identical, formula menu that smacks of an early TGI Friday attempt at appearing folksey, and a wine list guaranteed to deliver a dyspeptic episode so severe that one is utterly incapable of delivering the kind of commanding presence needed to provide the locals with the kind of leadership they crave.
It says a great deal about the restaurant that 80% of the covers are tables for one - and they feel that catering for the baser form of commercial traveller is a route to success.
It is even more unpleasant to know that the very act of my presence here has a consequences which alone makes my bowels quiver.
I shall not say the name of the chain - suffice to say I am indirectly enriching a vapid airhead layabout who is currently languishing in a colonial institute of correction - where, if justice exists in any corner of this world, she is learning about some of the baser realities of single sex institutions.
On this individual - one does draw comfort from the name with which she was bestowed. The gentleman who provided the riches may have acumen beyond the grasp of many - but naming one's daughter after a branch is a little unimaginative.
It would be like me having a son, and naming him 'Bedfordshire'. This alone proves to me that even the filthy rich or very successful are as capable as I - the common chap - of acts of stupidity too.
A crumb of comfort in my travails is that I am taking my team of loyal vassals out to dinner. This will mean plying them with strong Yorkshire ales, pies, steamed puddings and the like - whilst I bask in their adoration. I shall be drinking water - or if pushed Pimms. My lessons learned about what happens if one over imbibes.