Scotch egg

A fun day of reconnecting with colleagues and friends in the office. My working days are very different in the UK as there is ample time for face to face interactions and I remembered by the end of the day that these leave me feeling hugely energised. My colleague Paul, who works remotely in Germany, is also visiting the Cambridge office this week. He's a big advocate of spontaneous Skype calls to chew the fat, bridging the communications gap for those based remotely and working alone. In the main office we'd all be chatting with colleagues throughout the day, reinforcing those connections and strengthening working relationships. This needs to be done more proactively when you can't gather and pontificate around the water cooler.

Paul is a gregarious beast so rallied the troops for a spontaneous drink after work. We headed for a pub/bar that I've never quite taken to. Paul is also a northern skinflint (Doncaster) and was bemoaning the cost of sausage rolls and scotch eggs at the bar, delicious though they are. My Spanish colleague Isabel asked about scotch eggs, so someone described the structure of a boiled egg encased in sausage meat.

'I know what it is. I don't know why you would eat that.'

This bar is the sort of place where you have to linger away from the counter, assessing options, as if you waltz up unprepared, the bar staff may dismiss you as an amateur philistine beer drinker.

I asked, 'do you have cider?'

'Keg or cask?'

'I don't know the difference. Whichever is more like Strongbow.'

After an overpriced cider, I cycled to Leigh's now (almost) completed pad in Trumpington and we had a trademark evening of delicious conversation and delightful lounging in the cosy surroundings. The numb cycling face and late night dart through the cold streets were worth every second.