In between ninja-style moving, and packing, and viewing flats, and rain showers more torrential than I think I’ve ever seen on a weekend (timed just as Ryan and I disembarked the taxi carrying all his bags, in the middle of Clapton: cue stern warnings that I should stay put and not faff), there was an unexpectedly heavy night. Curse Trappist beer, and the pint of Guinness I definitely shouldn’t have touched with a barge pole afterward. But every cloud is silver lined, and aching heads and dry weather yesterday lent themselves to a lazy wander along the canal to Stratford, and hot food. So we visited Hackney Wick’s Counter Cafe, rather than over complicate things, and scoffed pies each (and balked at the 90 minute delay other diners who’d mistakenly ordered breakfast were enduring – how long does it take to poach an egg?) and still secretly agreed that we loved the place, even if the staff needed a greater sense of urgency, and the brownies were some of the best we’d had, and that sitting spitting distance from the Olympic Stadium was a superb way to spend a lazy Sunday.