In which Layla is sick, Roz listens to clever podcasts, and they both eat a very large meal

by Roz

I woke up to the sound of Layla being rather ill, vigorously and loudly and realised with sorrow that we would probably have to abandon our plan to go to the Queens Hall of Science and adjacent minature golf course in favour of a day of vomiting. A fine plan for Layla, but I had to wonder what I should do. Stay at home and look sympathetic or go and do something fun by myself? But first, a task that normally falls to Layla to do for me: the quest for medication. I trawled a variety of Greenwich Village pharmacies in search of anti-vomiting and anti-stomach pain medication to no avail. After quite a large number of shops (and a disappointing cup of tea from Le Pain Quotidien), I was obliged to return home with a very large bottle of what was essentially sugar syrup. The pharmacist assured me it would work. A couple of gulps of the syrup and Layla demonstrated that Scottish illness is made of stronger stuff than the American variety. It was not chased away by sugar and she returned speedily to her place by the toilet bowl. I decided that this was the moment for me to make a speedy exit.

After attempting coffee followed by food at Tea and Sympathy, and being told I had to commit to eating a certain amount or I wasn't welcome, I retired to the more friendly S'Nice for a leisurely brunch. I then wandered to the Highline Park and built upon my fantastic experience at the Natural History Museum by sitting in beautiful sunshine, listening to some podcasts of previous events. I listened to a lecture about electronics but it was too hard, so instead I listened to one about genetic engineering which I understood, mainly as it had a large number of film references. I may not know much about science but I do know my films. It made me all the more bitter that such a great event doesn't happen in London. As I was listening to it, Layla texted to report that she was definitely well enough to come and meet me. Twenty minutes later an ashen Layla limped towards me, a vision of invalid. In fact she was so weak she couldn't even make it to my bench without a rest. She assured me she felt great. And collapsed across my lap. I couldn't decide whether it was rude to continue with my podcast. She soon proved to be poor company, so I tuned back in...

When my educational hour was over, Layla looked no better and even she had to admit she may not be able to participate in any afternoon fun. So I escorted her home to bed and tried to download City Island for her on the laptop. I failed, but she was happy to sit huddled under a blanket in a darkened room while I fled to the sunny joys of Central Park with my book, City Boy by Edmund Whyte. I first went to the Boathouse and had a cocktail and a decadent plate of cheese so large that I desperately tried to look as though I was not alone, while listening to podcasts and gazing at the water sparkling in the sun. I then went and sat on a nearby bit of grass overlooking a lake and read my book, which I had bought only the day before, in Barnes and Noble. I particularly enjoyed that he had lived in Horatio Street, the NYC street in which we were currently living. I got myself a suntan and started messaging Layla to assess whether she might be able to do anything that evening. She was adamant that we kept our reservation at the Gramercy Tavern, a very fancy restaurant where a vegetarian tasting menu awaited us. Having been unable to keep down a sip of water all day, this seemed foolhardy, but she was insistent, so I came home to change. She still looked green. She insisted she was fine. Further probing revealed she couldn't think of anything else to do that evening, and felt guilt-ridden about this. This did not seem the best reason to go to one of NYC's most expensive restaurants, but I did see the logic. And so we took a cab to the Gramercy. Outside I asked Layla one final time whether it was a good idea.

And so, with an affirmative answer, we embarked on a 10 course extravaganza (mine accompanied by matching wine flights in generous glasses) and a complimentary glass of champagne to celebrate our first anniversary. Delicious. All sorts of tasty courses. Corn soup. Watermelon salad. Lentils. Spaghetti. Glorious cheese. And more. Layla did look a bit green, and I spotted her casting her eyes in the direction of the 'restrooms' more than once... but she struggled manfully on and, having hoovered up her dessert, which was decorated by a 'happy anniversary' message in chocolate, smiled proudly and assured me she had enjoyed herself. There were no adverse repercussions. I have a new respect for her gluttony.

And after a long and delightful meal, it was home to bed.