Not wanting to go to work

I realise that I really, really hate commuting. In Singapore, if I leave the office at six, ten minutes later I’m home and able to play with the kids before their baths, and everyone is happy. Or La Serpiente is screaming “Daddeeee” and trying to eat my beard, which is the same thing. In London, if I leave the office at six, ten minutes later I’m only halfway back to Charing Cross, and then it’s a fifteen minute wait if I’m lucky, then thirty minutes crammed into a train, and then a mile walk home, and if all goes to plan La Serpiente grabs my legs and tries to eat my beard. But in a less enjoyable way.

This morning was just as bad in the opposite direction. I was coming down with a cold, the consequence of late nights, early mornings and a diet of mince pies and little else. I struggled out of bed about eight, got to the station and missed a train by two minutes, and then the next train ran ten minutes late, so it wasn’t until ten o’clock that I was at my desk. I don’t know how I ever managed to cope when I lived in London with this nonsense.

On the positive side, I went to Pizza Pilgrims today for an epically great pizza – just as good as Pizza Strada in Tokyo. I have taken great solace from the idea that for most people, gluten doesn’t make you bloated: eating an entire pizza does. Today, I had an entire pizza, didn’t feel bloated at all. So that’s working out for me.

Also, if I get eight hours’ sleep, i don’t get double vision and the shakes. Who knew, eh?

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