F1 diary: Canadian grand prix

There aren't many things that justify entering London Victoria tube station during rush hour, but the burden feels less onerous when the end destination is Montreal rather than Moorgate or somesuch. After a hop on the District Line, a skip on the Piccadilly and a detour to Dixons to replace some earphones that have recently spilled from my bag – an iPod and Pink Floyd's Atom Heart Mother are essential companions on any long-haul flight – I sit down before a bowl of peanuts and several mugs of coffee in the Servisair lounge at Heathrow Terminal Three. Mark and I are on the same Air Canada flight, which is eerily empty given that it's a grand prix weekend. I annex a row of three seats, but eschew sleep in order to complete a column for Japan. It is early afternoon in Montreal when we check in to a pleasant hotel in the city's Latin quarter. This one is down to Tony, who has booked a twin room in the hope that we'll be able to add a third bed upon arrival: the laws of physics make this awkward, but there is a Dodgins-sized cubby hole into which we manage to fit a few cushions as a surrogate bed. Henceforth, this will be known as his kennel. The humidity is stifling and the air-conditioning doesn't seem terribly effective, but the staff could not be friendlier and the whole area has a nicer feel than downtown. Mark and I pop across the road for a light late lunch, then brave the heat to explore the area and establish our bearings. Homelessness is rarely a stranger in major conurbations, but if anything the problem seems to be growing around here: there are stark contrasts between the elegant local architecture, the carefree urbanites sipping overpriced coffees on pavement terraces and the rampant poverty that's scattered in between. Tony joins us in the late afternoon and we introduce him to his kennel. He seems happy enough with his lot and we chat awhile before a planned assault on a nearby Indian restaurant. That's the plan, anyway. Earlier, while walking, I'd noticed my blood sugar dipping and had taken a couple of precautionary dextrose tablets. I attempt a routine glucose test before we go out, but co-ordination appears to have deserted me and I keep dropping my monitor on the floor. The others are concerned – and not a little confused – because I'm able to talk coherently (for a short while, at least) but apparently incapable of moving my limbs. Mark takes an executive decision to call an ambulance. There aren't many things that justify entering London Victoria tube station during rush hour, but the burden feels less onerous when the end destination is Montreal rather than Moorgate or somesuch. After a hop on the District Line, a skip on the Piccadilly and a detour to Dixons to replace some earphones that have recently spilled from my bag – an iPod and Pink Floyd's Atom Heart Mother are essential companions on any long-haul flight – I sit down before a bowl of peanuts and several mugs of coffee in the Servisair lounge at Heathrow Terminal Three. Mark and I are on the same Air Canada flight, which is eerily empty given that it's a grand prix weekend. I annex a row of three seats, but eschew sleep in order to complete a column for Japan. It is early afternoon in Montreal when we check in to a pleasant hotel in the city's Latin quarter. This one is down to Tony, who has booked a twin room in the hope that we'll be able to add a third bed upon arrival: the laws of physics make this awkward, but there is a Dodgins-sized cubby hole into which we manage to fit a few cushions as a surrogate bed. Henceforth, this will be known as his kennel. The humidity is stifling and the air-conditioning doesn't seem terribly effective, but the staff could not be friendlier and the whole area has a nicer feel than downtown. Mark and I pop across the road for a light late lunch, then brave the heat to explore the area and establish our bearings. Homelessness is rarely a stranger in major conurbations, but if anything the problem seems to be growing around here: there are stark contrasts between the elegant local architecture, the carefree urbanites sipping overpriced coffees on pavement terraces and the rampant poverty that's scattered in between. Tony joins us in the late afternoon and we introduce him to his kennel. He seems happy enough with his lot and we chat awhile before a planned assault on a nearby Indian restaurant. That's the plan, anyway. Earlier, while walking, I'd noticed my blood sugar dipping and had taken a couple of precautionary dextrose tablets. I attempt a routine glucose test before we go out, but co-ordination appears to have deserted me and I keep dropping my monitor on the floor. The others are concerned – and not a little confused – because I'm able to talk coherently (for a short while, at least) but apparently incapable of moving my limbs. Mark takes an executive decision to call an ambulance.