26.02 My Bleeding Heart

This was my final day in the office, as such there was a compulsory leaving lunch. Clerkenwell’s The Bleeding Heart is widely recommended, so Claire, Kate, Laura, Sinead (alphabetical order) and I skipped down there. It's an institution, there’s been a restaurant here since 1746. The more recent arrival of French owners added, I suspect, considerable subtlety to the cuisine as well as the piquance of effortless Gallic rudeness. Still it was a jolly meal and the food was delicious.
Back at the bureau and counting down the hours, I was the subject of a surprisingly flattering leaving speech. Many thanks, Alison. Over the next few hours I was asked a couple of times whether I was sorry to leave. The correct answer is a delicate balance of enthusiasm and warmth about missing the questioner tempered by excitement about the move. My rushed answer “Sorry to leave! Why would I be sorry to leave?” left a lot to be desired and I can only put it down to the rush of the moment. It’s also not true, I’m going to miss my friends more than I care to think about it.
And so on for drinks at Malmaison on Charterhouse Square. As well as showing off my splendid leaving card and trying to convince people that I really had not packed yet, the evening culminated in being serenaded by a remarkable rendition of The Lion Sleeps Tonight. Thanks everyone for coming.
And so home to pack. A simple process of shoving whatever was left in a suitcase, which I achieved effortlessly, apart from the short, if lively, 10 minutes when I lost my passport. Closing the suitcase was more difficult and required all the weight I could muster: so I sat on it, naked, as this was the last thing I did all day, as well as the least elegant. Oh dear.