My body insisted that 6am was the right time to get up this morning. So I saw day break in a hotel on the Euston Road.
The other people in the restaurant were either Chunnel workers, perpetually single men of advanced years, or sturdy female German tourists. And me. Sat in a corner, reading Vanity Fair.
I realised, with a little sigh that I'd got the weekend the wrong way round. At 6am on a Saturday morning, I'm supposed to be in Fire, my arms, eyes and legs akimbo.
It's now 10am, and I've done nearly everything I'd aim to do in a normal weekend. What the hell do I do now?