Finger Food

I've been up and down to the Royal Free so many times recently that they are likely to name a wing after me soon.  Nothing particularly serious, just this slow-to-heal finger.  I take particular delight in the fact that when asked to show it, there is almost no option but to swear.  Although it's American swearing, so slightly ersatz.  Although one might argue that the middle finger has taken the place of flicking the Vs, much-beloved of those in the UK over a certain age.  There is nothing quite as casually contemptuous as a lazy V flick.

After clinic, x-ray and clinic, I was desperate for cheap starchy refreshment.  They've got a cafe but with all the distancing lark, the queue was huge.  I put desperation on hold until Paddington, where I had clocked there was a Pret open.  Paddington is still very odd, lots of staff in bright pink gilets hanging about, but few travellers.  With my first shop-bought coffee in months I sat on a station bench and shovelled down a slightly burned Danish pastry.  The coffee was nothing to write home about but it signified a world outside still functioning, albeit behind perspex and without seating.

It takes nine minutes to travel from Paddington to Ealing.  On a wall just out of Paddington Station is the instruction EAT DA RICH.  No recipes given, mind you.