Sunday Jan 8th- day 2

I am now tired of being sick and decide to ignore it. Today I will go DOWNTOWN, baby, and I will do some exploring. I bone up on what to see with my guide books over breakfast, then I hit the 71 bus and I'm rollin'. Pike Market is a big covered market with stalls of any description, most notably of fantastic seafood. And sure enough, that's about the first thing I see, rows of crabs, massive salmon, you name it. Here's me looking not very healthy in me new Christmas hat, getting ready to take on the world... and here's a big ole monkfish!

The market is great- buzzing with people setting up stalls, hawking stuff to passers by, juggling fishin the air. After checking it out, I go for a drink at cafe campagne, which is a nearby and well-regarded watering hole. Brunch is called for. The waiter looks EXACTLY like Gareth from "the Office" (a TV sitcom for you old-timers), a fact which is probably lost on him but which brings me a lot of pleasure. I imagine how Gareth would take my order. He might mention that scrambled eggs are good food for soldiers, and useful in the trenches.

As I am ordering, I realise that I inadvertently said "Can I get... ?" rather than "Can I have... ?" So it is starting, the Americanisation of that Great British Institution, me! I would really rather not be. He comes back over and I decide I will also have a coffee, even though I am not a coffee fan, but here we are in Seattle, home of the coffee shop, so I really should indulge. I catch Gareth's eye and as he comes over I rehearse what I will say.

"Can I have... can I have... can I have... can I have... can I have..." I repeat under my breath.

He says, "What can I get you?"

I say, "Can I get a ca-...?"

D'oh! He is probably a little confused by the crestfallen look on my face, but he doesn't show it. I order my capuccino. The scarmbled eggs arrive and are wolfed, I say WOLFED down. The coffee is sipped, as one does, but it seems immediately to make me feel a bit funny. Coffee can sometimes givev me a migraine, and I have a tingling in my left hand, as I do sometimes before a migraine. Am I really to spend 2 months in the mecca of coffee shops and be destined never to enjoy a mocca-chocca-cino? I decide that it is like being invited to bathe with Cleopatra and discovering you are lactose intolerant. That mental image helps to soften the blow.

I mosy on and do some shopping. I hit Macy's, and get some cute baby stuff for the new ankle-biters back in Blighty (should that be ankle-suckers until they get some teeth?) I also see this sign above a coffee shop- evidently Bush's administration is not riding high in the popularity stakes.

I pop into another bar which is mentioned in my rather excellent eat.shop.seattle guide book (thanks James and Rosie!) and write a couple of postcards in the near darkness. After another stint of shopping, I am all plum tuckered. I get the good ole 71 right back to my neighbourhood. And sho nuff, I am riddy for my little ole bed.