Saturday afternoon and I felt ill, exhausted and headachey. B went out to the birthday party we were both meant to be attending. I put my pyjamas on, dosed up on hot spiced pear juice and ibuprofen, and cautiously, slowly, constructed Dan Lepard's squelchy, sweet apple, walnut and custard cake. With a dollop of crème fraîche and a drizzle of San Franciscan maple syrup, an evening of bed, hot drinks and sleep didn't seem as dreadfully depressing as it has a couple of hours previously.
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