Now 16 ½ miles into the day’s run and 6 hours into a British Empire of a Hangover (would the Sun never set on this one?), I realised I was starving and with a few minutes to kill before I could safely enter the Antelope (and, no, “enter the Antelope” is not a sex euphemism this time; the Antelope is a bar a couple of doors down from here), I popped into the Tooting Fish & Kebab for nourishment.
As I collected the fish I saw the pack of tutu wearing morons dashing down the street and realised, happily, I would have the bar to myself but that I should probably eat this outside. The first bite was sublime, hot, juicy, with the perfect amount of salt, vinegar and chip fat. I barely remember the rest although I am sure I savoured it as I walked a hundred meters south then crossed over and walked back happy and, if not full, pleased with the meal.