Sunny lunch

Laura invited me for a nice lunch at a pub in Histon with Thomasina and her boyfriend Charlie. It was bloody great fun, and delicious. I went for roast beef, and when the server clarified that I'd be ok with pink bits, I said 'I'm northern so normally I'd have it more well done.' Charlie is a filmmaker who has travelled a lot around the country and suggested I wasn't just pandering to a stereotype, but that there is truth in not always being able to get a good rare steak in the north, as perhaps fewer people request it. In Stoke at least, culinary exquisiteness is not its unique selling point, unless you're talking about Staffordshire oatcakes dripping in cheddar cheese and greasy bacon. The pink bits on the beef turned out to be scrumptious, so I'll go for less chargrilled in future.

In more Stoke-like behaviour, by 1.30pm two Russian guys were beyond hammered in the lounge area of the pub, which was fairly upmarket. They didn't know their arses from their ears, didn't realise they kept being refused service and proved troublesome to the staff by wandering around disturbing diners. It was a strange venue in which to get blottoed on a Sunday lunchtime. In Stoke we'd do it a lot more wisely and cheaply at Wetherspoons.

This serene River Cam scene was shortly before I realised I had a slow puncture whilst cycling the few miles back to Cambridge. I had to spend the rest of the day walking, which is time-consuming when trying to dash around seeing friends and complete errands ahead of the move.

In the evening I spent a couple of hours in the office doing desk clearing. My handwriting in 2012 was unrecognisably neater than now. Is this another impact of the smartphone era in which we surely write less, or symbolic of the more chaotic lifestyle I now lead?!