We wake up much earlier on the third day and pop across to a nearby patch of green to ‘toss the old pig skin around’. Only when there do we notice that winter has seemingly returned, and with a vengeance. Snow even begins to fall. We retire, shivering, to a local breakfast place, where even ‘The Healthy Option’ consists of a gargantuan stack of syrupy pancakes, each comfortably the diameter of a fat man’s face. The Big Man, that great devotee of caffeine, gets outside five-six refills of coffee then flies back to the Airbnb, never less than a few inches off the ground.

*

Being ‘suckers’, as they say, for punishment, we brave the sleet and ice and get on a riverboat, all the better to enjoy America’s second city’s sensational architecture. We pass Trump International Hotel and Tower (if ever a building had small hands it’s this one), the Tribune Tower and countless other landmarks. Our aged tour-guide almost expires from the chill and gets progressively more grumpy.

We head to the bar to ‘warm up’, then ride the L Train around the Loop. We all feel particularly Chicagoan, especially Silver, who loves, LOVES an L Train. We have a quick snack (Chick Fil A – who go a short way towards compensating for their less than enlightened thinking vis-a-vis ‘homosexual folks getting hitched’ with some high-level chicken sandwiches). Three of us (myself, Silver and The Big Man) have genuine, American haircuts. They are unimpressed by the amount ‘taken off’, suggesting that they’ve just paid quite a few bucks to have their hair brushed by a garrulous old man and to leaf through a few old Playboys. I, however, look sensationally sharp.

Now wait…what is this flap of wings..is it? Is it? IS IT? It is. The Eagle, just the 29 hours late, has arrived. First flight slept through, second flight delayed. What an idiot. Yet finally he lands and the half dozen is completed. We celebrate with an elevator up the 450m Willis Tower. There is a transparent and overhanging viewing platform set up right at the top. The Big Man, true to form, cranks out a tight set of press-ups over the void. Madman. I could barely step out over the ledge. On a clear day one can see, they say, into four states from the top of the erstwhile Sears Tower. We certainly didn’t have that, but the vistas were far from insubstantial nevertheless.

*

We accidentally end up going for deep dish pizza again, this time at the famous Uno’s. 50% of the group opt for pasta (weak decision – a champion should always accept a rematch after a good bout). The Eagle and I demolish the challenger set before us. The Yankee orders a broccoli pizza, which the octogenarian waitress (quite rightly I thought) forgot to bring over.

Then to a succession of bars. One had a dueling pianos set-up. Talent was in middling to short supply, the notes aimed at but generally missed by at least a third. Many fine, brave songs died that night. I get a little surly and occasionally heckle.

Avec les femmes, as they say in Italy, the lads tried their able best, having a red hot go with a very limited Monday night supply. Silver effected a sustained assault on the holy bonds of matrimony, but was defeated at the last. Finally we all bundled into a taxi, with Silver and myself exiled to the boot (or ‘trunk’, if one is to indulge in the local patois). I objected to my carriage somewhat vociferously, and the way back to the flat echoed with my sustained bitching. Another (long) day was knocked on the head. Tomorrow the journey itself would begin…