They say a week's a long time in politics. Nothing though when compared to Contrary Towers, where an hour is an eternity filled with juxtaposing contrasts and twisting ideas. A week ago I wrote about our escape from London to escape the hype. The result of the exhaustion brought on by constant reports of doom. And Boris on the Tannoy.
But here is the advantage of being contrary. It's okay to change the mind.
On Friday we spent a lot of the morning watching the Olympics, the odd thing at first, we were both working at home, but by the end of the athletics session we were glued. There, said it. On the way to Norfolk to see my children and the nearly-ex I found myself checking the news to see how things were going. Me. Checking sport. Me. Weird.
And here I am on Saturday night. I've shed buckets over Jess Ennis, clutched my hands over Greg Rutherford and squeaking with excitement as Mo Farah did an Ennis and didn't just win, but won with style. During the day I was updating my flatmate by text with the latest news as I bumbled around the house, again, unheard of. I even had my laptop connected to the BBC as I cooked.
I've just had a text from my Irish gentleman friend, he's back from the Olympic Stadium. And, I admit it, I am actually quite jealous, I would have loved to have been there. But then as, until yesterday, I had no interest whatsoever, it was unlikely.
It's not the sport thing. It was the sheer humanity of the competitors, athletes, rowers, cyclists, every one of them. And that they could draw together not just this fucked up country but also this even more fucked up individual is, in itself, nothing short of a miracle.
I salute you all. And, when I return, might just have a Limehouse Half Cut in your honour.