Year of Eating Differently (91): The Stockpot, Old Compton Street

So the weather gets colder again, and I'm riddled with ennui and lassitude, to the point where I can hardly stand, let alone stand it. Stagger down to Old Compton Street in search of an omelette and chips.
Unfortunately, when I get to the Stockpot they're as busy as hell and the poor benighted waitress looks as tired as I feel, right down to the huge bags under her eyes which make it appear that she's looking at this week from the wrong end of a very long tunnel. All I've been up to this weekend is riding a bike around Dorking until my arse hurt (Saturday) and then reading The Beach on Sunday, and reminding myself of how rubbish it was. And yet quite compulsive. Must make a note of this before embarking on the Great Folkestone Novel.
Thus, due to a combination of the kitchen being busy and everyone being knackered, it's half an hour before my omelette turns up, during which time I surmise I must have been looking daggers at the waitress, but honestly it's not my fault. When I'm this tired, I don't have much control over my expressions.
Omelette - fine - quite creamy in parts, but very good. Chips also, although one of them was green.