Margaritas for breakfast, ordered by the pitcher load to dull the mild hangover that was chipping away at my grey matter. “It’s a Marathon Monday tradition”, I was told, as I slugged it down with one beefy firewood fajita and the Everest pile of sweet potato fries. The window seats in Cactus Club, on the corner of Boylston Street, were rammed, so we perched on our toes to cheer as the first wheel chairs bolted around the corner and hit the 25.2 mile mark, pulling themselves through that last agonising leg. My head reeled with it. It was more than impressive. There was an electric hum running the route, twisting every face up into that big American grin as the sun beat down from a completely clear sky. It was the perfect day for the Boston Marathon. We headed outside to watch the first women round the corner, soon to be peppered with the first male champions and weighed-down walkers for the Wounded Warrior Project. Our plan was to bar hop to the finish line but we only made it hal...
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