The end of a journey

To celebrate the end of the Euros, Ottawacker Jr. and I had a Monday morning brunch of English eggs. Which are essentially fried eggs with a dodgy ketchup line representing the cross of St. George, that well-known Georgian saint.

I have come pretty much to the end of another journey too. The editing of the book, of which I completed the revision of the final 25 chapters yesterday.

Still more stuff to do, but it feels as if the rubicon has been crossed. 

Now, as for England. I have a hundred or so blips to catch up on - so I will contain myself to the following. 

I started off cheering on their opposition in every match they played. As the tournament went on, I gradually grew to like and respect their players. At all times, this was countered by my massive contempt for the English - of whom, of course, I am one. Talk about conflicted. On one side you have a vision of how I once imagined England was: decent, respectful, welcoming and caring. On the other, the monster unleashed by Johnson, Patel and the other cockwombles. 

Desperately sad that one of the penalties was missed by Marcus Rashford. 

England, for once, does not deserve its football team.