The Northern Exodus

As I write this, I'm sitting with some colleagues, in the weirdest sort of lobby restaurant in my experience of 42 years, in armchairs, trying not to let loose the spirit that wants to bop a couple of them in the head with a dessert spoon, as they eat desserts. While, for some reason apparently connected to a Welsh professor of marine agriculture (undersea potatoes anyone?), swapping and raising a range of fish puns.

This is Nottingham. Good city, to be fair, but will be glad to come back from it.
Oddly enough, on the train on the way up, I texted one of my editors, Gail, to ask her how the day was treating her.
"Am on a train up to Birmingham," she said, in a tone that said she'd rather be travelling barefoot into Hell to have dinner with Robert Maxwell.
"Oh that's weird - so am I," I said, "only I'm going all the way up to up to Nottingham."
Later, I popped into Facebook, and saw that one of the best of the Karens who make my live an altogether Kareny place, said she was in Birmingham. So suddenly, it's as though independently, and without prior arrangement, a few sections of my life have buggered off from Wales overnight and headed up to the northern territories.
Not remotely relevant, but moderately odd, I thought.

Today has been spent in a range of Starbucks, from my normal Cardiff one, through to the one very helpfully and thoughtfully placed within stumbling distance from Nottingham train station (thanks for that, Nottingham, much appreciated), and as you find me, I'm about to nip out for another couple of quick ones in the one cunningly placed on campus at the university at which I am conferencing tomorrow, which closes in about an hour...
...about 40 minutes...
Bugger - must dash. There's a decaff with my name on it, dammit. Didn't gym this morning, incidentally. There's a gym here, but I almost consciously rejected d's suggestion that I take some gym kit with me. Idiot boy...

Right - to the Decaff Cave, Batman...