And so it was the morning after the Wivenhoe fire.
Having wandered down to the train station just after midnight in my jim jams, Monday morning was all a little bit of a haze.
Not good for the 7am work shift.
The pace picked up, with a full on morning of crisis simulation.
Right in the kisser!
Actually I think it was the four cups of tea before we simulated that got my crisis brain back on track.
I disappeared off to Colchester just after luncheon. I had a spot of pitching to do.
It went well, apart from the pitch-ee perhaps not being in a position to hear pitches for that much longer.
I messed up with my train times, and so did the charity shop circuit instead.
I've gotta say that it was a little uninspiring.
I arrived back at base in the pissing rain, with the mad cat outdoors and taking cover underneath the garden bench.
Art Blakey and his Jazz Messengers got me through the final run of work shifts during a thoroughly miserable Monday afternoon.
I spent less than two minutes in the evening buying online a coat that I couldn't find in over an hour of looking around the shops of not so Sunny Colch.
WE ARE LIVING IN TOMORROW'S WORLD, Comrades.
The rest of Monday was spent on Brixton Buzz action, with a really can't be arsed eye on the D***y match.
My old man said be a D***y fan...