In which I prove to be a harsh tourmaster

For some strange reason it feels much later than it actually is. The clock says it's only five to twelve, and yet I could almost swear it was around two o'clock. I think my biological clock is fairly trustworthy for the most part - I don't bother with watches if I can help it, and if I take a guess at what the time is, I'll usually be within 10 minutes or so. Good enough, mostly, although I do get incredibly uptight when I think I'm going to be late for anything. Today I carried on dragging my brother around the various sights of London that I think are worth seeing. On the spur of the moment, I even picked up tickets for The Lion King, which is by far my favourite show to drag people in to (friends that is - I don't accost random strangers in the street and drag them into musicals. Well, not often anyway...). The performance was at 3pm, which gave us a couple of hours to rush hither and zither across my favourite sights like St Paul's and the Tate Modern before dashing back to the theatre. Poor Jamie complained once or twice that he wasn't used to walking so much and at such a pace, but I didn't take much heed until we arrived for the show and I realised he was limping. And the only tickets I could get were standing room only. Oops. Still, he should get a decent nights sleep to help him recover before I have to wake him at some ungodly hour tomorrow morning to make certain he catches his train on time. Hmm, hang on a second, that means I have to get up at the same ungodly hour too, doesn't it? Hmm, I think I'd best be off to bed now.

Nighty, night.