It's two nights in a Travelodge for us here in Nottingham, and there's a pub next door which opens for breakfast. Colin and Dan are already there when I show up, and are tucking into the maximum possible breakfast available. We're all losing a bit of weight because the tour's so physical, but there's something about Stage Managers and their metabolism - I mean, Colin ate seven KitKats the other day without incident.
Next to the order point there is a display of cheesecakes of such obscene dimensions that is makes me queasy. They are covered in Aeros, Dime Bars, Twix and so on, and they're all at least a foot high. As someone who's attitude to food is "cram as much sensual gorgeousness into your mouth as you can" not much throws me, but the sight of this, coupled with the carvery along the counter where someone chooses that moment to pour about four gallons of gravy into a tureen makes the knees buckle. Ugh.
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