Dirty stop out

I always feel delightfully decadent buying the Sunday papers in the station on the way home from my Saturday night. It’s like having my own little paper time-machine. Tomorrow’s news today.

Of course it would be more impressive if it actually was tomorrow and we had been out late partying into the small hours. It says more about how absurdly early the Sunday papers get put to bed (or indeed how absurdly early I usually do) than it does about my social life. But it still makes me feel as though I’m trailing home as the sun rises across some dew-soaked meadow, empty champagne bottle in one hand, my shoes in the other, even though actually I’m back in time for Book at Bedtime.

So. Anyone for Horlicks?

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