Yesterday morning, Whitney used a practiced form of entrapment on me when she came in and asked "Do you want French toast for breakfast?" (the answer to which is always "yes"), and then following it up with "Well, go down to the supermarket, then."

At about ten in the morning it was uncomfortable enough moving around more than five metres away from an air conditioning unit, but it wasn't quite the blazing inferno that Boston's been turned into every day this week. I survived and got a couple of French toast-related items, then headed back. On my way I passed a group of Jewish children being led back from the synagogue, all of whom gave me very strange looks as they came past. I first thought that I must have something on my shirt or had forgotten to put on trousers or something, but it took me until the next corner to realize what had got their attention.

I was carrying a loaf of Challah bread in one hand and a nice big wad of bacon in the other.