A terminal case?

I'm not entirely sure where I've been these past fifteen or so years [working too hard?], or how I've managed to miss out out on Bill Bryson's 'Notes from a small island' but anyway I've finally caught up with this and loads of other books - one of the great things about not working is the chance to read, and paint and garden and cook... the list goes on.

I was told to stop reading Bryson in bed because, although I didn't emit any of the loud snorts that one of the reviews promised, I couldn't stop myself, and the whole room, shaking with silent laughter.

There's a wonderful quote [among many] on architecture and in his chapter on Oxford he writes of all the beautiful buildings created throughout the ages, so why don't we build an ugly one now... I'd kind of assumed that bad building was inevitable. but I'm thinking again and looking at streetscapes anew and longing for a bulldozer, and which one we can use as a prison for the architects.

He also writes of the two kinds of walkers, those who walk to the pub and [hopefully] stagger back, and those with more serious intent who dress up in special clothes and go out whatever the weather. Which reminds me of the time we headed off on the Watkin Path up Snowdon at 7am in thick cloud and rain and I kept on saying, 'We might rise above the cloud into the sun, it's happened before.' [Another day when I wasn't the most popular man in town - because the cloud decided to stick around.] Then Bryson writes of the breed of walkers who have the condition in a terminal form, those who wear shorts whatever the weather; and as someone who wears shorts even when I walk and run in the snow [or as pictured in the cloud on Crib Goch] I wonder how much longer I have... Answers on a postcard or here