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London calling

As so often happens, yesterday was the nicest weather we had all week in California. Andrew got up early and went for a run while I packed and listened to NPR. For the record, it took 3 weeks before I cracked and turned on NPR. Before that, I found myself unable to tolerate American news (possibly because one of my first mornings home I was subjected to this Today Show report).

Anyway, packing seemed easier than it had been in either Spokane or at The Beach, which makes me think we must have forgotten something of substantial bulk. Oh well. Work went by quickly: I had a meetings with some French colleagues and a few other folks. Lots of the California team seemed to be working from San Francisco (fair enough!). Breakfast was at No Name: those delicious egg tortilla things plus some stawberries. Lunch was at Big Table with Chris, but was only middling.

8 of us hired a van to take us to SFO at 2.30, after which Andrew & I lodged ourselves in the lounge with a few other colleagues. Note to mother: despite drinking Glenlivet for almost 4 hours, no one told me I smelled of an electrical fire.

Andrew and I were, blissfully, seated in High-J. Me in 62K and him in 62J. I was delighted that they were serving Taittinger, but that made my disappointment all the more bitter when they switched to Ayala once we were in the air. Boo. Dinner was fine. We both had beef with a demi-glace. The AVOD was on the fritz (no surprise there), which I always like since it comes with a 15,000 mile apology. Possibly most important: Andrew actually got some sleep.

Speaking of Andrew: we got married 6 weeks ago yesterday, during with time he’s made 6 flights across the Atlantic (only 1 of them outside economy). The chap deserves a medal. And a chance to return to a routine.

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