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.

Year of Eating Differently (37): Blue Cafe, Bateman Street

After a heavy weekend, a chilly day in London. Popped out to get a sandwich, had an omelette instead. Not so sure about the presentation of it - basically a cowpat of yolk studded with mushrooms - but some bread and a little salad to make up for that, and it was filling enough. Cheerful staff, quite poor paintings on the walls that you could pay 150 pounds for if you really wanted to, and sadly Norah Jones was on the stereo singing some rubbish by Meredith Brooks. Or Garth Brooks? Who knows? The woman behind the counter was the spitting image of a friend's New Zealand girlfriend, but with a more exotic accent. Somefin foreign, aintcher?