Cowboy boots and a blue dress, diamond-print tights and gold shoes, a bottle of Rioja and pointy purple flats, and there’s been out and out and out again. A pre-dinner French #75 at the Keston Lodge on Upper Street, and time still for a gin and tonic down the block.

Saturday we settled into second breakfast at the S&M Café by the Old Spitalfields Market.

“I don’t know which I like more,” I said. “First breakfast or second.”

“Probably second,” Thush said, “because you’ve pottered about a bit, you’ve worked up an appetite, y’know, you’ve really worked for it.”

“That’s right,” I said. “This one I deserve.” But then I couldn’t concentrate anymore, because hungry, so hungry, and then, like perfect timing, the waitress brought a sausage splitting down the side, a runny egg, a lake of baked beans, (a bake of laked beans).

After, the bounty at Borough Market: fat figs five for a pound; shiny silvery fish; truffles in honey ginger! orange cardamom! apple cinnamon!; rabbits hanging by their hind legs over at the butcher’s. The sign on the display of brown kumato read: Sensational Tomato turns Mauve as it ripens. Discovered on the Galapagos Islands where it revved up the Giant Tortoises Sex Lives.

We collapsed into a deep booth at the Garrison Public House. And the late lunch, and the lingering, and the light outside mellowing through the frosted-glass windows.

Nightfall lit up round lightbulbs suspended on smiling strings along the river.