If anyone asks where we will be during the Olympics, I just smile mysteriously. Because it is a bit of a mystery. We will be either camping in Cornwall, or in Ireland, or at the bottom of my parents’ garden in Wimbledon, for all I know. Maybe all three. One thing I do known  however, is that we will not be in Islington. No, for we have talked the talk and walked the walk and lain down with that nice, sharp man Mr Foxton. Not Biblically speaking, of COURSE. But metaphorically. Read More…