Actually, it may not be that sleepless, after a seriously heavy night of drinking with Mr Allen last night. Tom, not Tim. Tom. Tom. After moping through today with a monster hangover, packing has proved a bit of a struggle. Anoche, in a gloomy, wet Stokesley, Mr Allen and I were of course safely tucked away in the glowy-warm bar of Chapter's Hotel where we supped enough draught Estrella Damm to sink the proverbial ship, and sank we did. Indeed, we had virtually capsized when the most helpful barman (Tom's mate. You know, one of those 'he always looks after me when I'm in here' type mates) suggested we moved on to the double bourbons. Turns out these weren't some kind of oversized custard cream biscuit sandwiches, and more quaffing was followed by a rather blurry
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