In the hope of ensuring I get at least something positive out of my confinement, I have bought a pile of hippy crap from Holland & Barrett and a mountain of vegetables, and am attempting a few days Clean Living, complete with Epsom Salts, body brushing, effervescent milk thistles capsules, brisk walks in sensible shoes, 1001 ways with ruby chard and those revolting Dr Karg crackers. Oh, Dr Karg, you sadistic über-villain, your seed-based war on my palate rages unabated. There's a reason he sounds like an intergalactic war criminal. I imagine him to look a little like the Emperor Zurg from Toy Story, but with more hemp. I am, what, three hours into this demented health kick and have already had half a Lyle's Ginger Cake and two of the stale mint humbugs I found on the mantelpiece. It's going BRILLIANTLY.
Bath is ... lovely, actually. Warm. The oh so restorative spa waters make crap tea, but apart from that I have no complaints. It is oddly full of seagulls, but since I got a little distracted on the way here and ended up in Bristol, which had even more seagulls, I was prepared. M4, M5... Very similar when you're sweating terror from every pore and appear to be condemned to listen to Radio Malvern for all eternity. I was simply glad to be alive and in full possession of my wing mirrors (I am driving a car the size of Luxembourg) somewhere vaguely in the South West. Bath, once I finally found it, is beautiful and busy, and more importantly has a Waitrose. I am a little disappointed noone has asked me to dance a quadrille yet, but then I am very far past marriageable age and have entirely lost my bloom. Maybe all the milk thistle and body brushing will restore it? Unlikely, I grant you.
I will give you an update later in the week, I should imagine. If anyone knows lovely places I could go in Bath when I am not contemplating certain failure, eating industrial ginger cake or scratching my left foot, do let me know.