I’m currently in The Hideout. Sipping, through a chilled stainless steel straw, my pint of Diablo Menthe. It’s resting on a wobbly table that doesn’t sit still, despite relentless attempts at repositioning it and putting my right foot on one of its feet. The sweat has finally finished dripping down my forehead and chest. That’s partly because I’m sitting in this rather nice self-proclaimed pub. It’s also partly because I changed my top in the toilet at Gare du Nord. I’ve got an entire 3 hour wait until I need to check-in with Eurostar, which means I’m at a loss of things to do, again. I can walk around the station and see what’s about, although there isn’t much, at all. I can find somewhere to enjoy a pleasant meal before departure but that doesn’t fill me with any joyful thoughts. I may pop to Monoprix and grab myself some munchies for the journey. I don’t think I’ll be writing on the way home as I’m now feeling exceptionally knackered. This rest has worked amazingly well for my mental rest, but physically, I’m continuing to slowly recover from Blackpool. Lake District didn’t help. Neither have the late nights, early mornings and suppressive heat during the day. The remainder of August will have to be carefully planned so I don’t end up passing out through nervous exhaustion.