Saturday 24 January
Off to Lancaster or, more accurately, off to the pub on the way to the station on the way to and the way back from Lancaster with Cameron and Jesus while in between crack medical team of Jefferson and Melinda Cake do their good doctor/insane cackling doctor hosting routine. No sooner has Jefferson added Polish beer to the trans-Europe expressway that is my stomach than Melinda has put me to bed and with this considerate act spared the pleasant plethora of party guests from my blurting of Miss January’s name for one small portion of the month at least. What she could not prevent was a small queue assembling to take daguerreotypes of my slumbering form. Apart from a few decades, and a slightly superior cape, the most recently dead pope has nothing on me.