I slept badly, with a developing sore throat, and was out of the hotel by half past seven, well before sunrise for a change, to walk across Abbey Fields to St Nicholas' Parish Church for the eight o'clock service. I was disappointed to discover it was cancelled and that there'd only be a family Eucharist on this Christmas Sunday at a time I wouldn't be able to make it. So, I wandered slowly back to the hotel, enjoying seeing blackbirds and a missle thrush close to the footpath, too preoccupied with hunting for worms in the semi-frozen ground to be alarmed by my presence in the semi darkness.
Kath had just arrived back from ferrying Rachel and Jasmine to Heathrow when we reached the house for a farewell breakfast. By midday we were driving back to Cardiff. My cold was really beginning to develop, and I ended up in bed early, watching an episode of 'Inspector Montalbano' I'd seen before, that had an inconsistent confusing ending. I didn't have the energy to watch the last ten minutes again, so I obsessed about it in my groggy state, drifting in and out of sleep.
This is the first cold I've had in ten months. I wondered how long it would take, after observing the alarming number of train travellers coughing when I arrived back in Bristol last Monday, compared to the few coughs I heard travelling to Barcelona earlier the same day. Ah well, there's nothing much to be done in the aftermath of Christmas, but enduring a cold isn't my idea of leisure.
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