Last night was perfectly nice and normal. Nothing odd happened. I had a meal at a very trendy restaurant in Columbia Road in the evening and felt slightly under-dressed: I didn't have a beret or a pretentious 1960s Penguin paperback, all covered in orange and cream. I wasn't smoking roll-ups or talking about my career in the media. Slightly strange place, but it was normal enough for London.
In fact nothing odd happened to me all day.
Odd.
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