We traipsed, is what we did, when we weren’t lounging about over breakfasts first and second. Down Portobello, up Kensington, ’round Carnaby. On Old Bond Street the smart-suited doormen of Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent lined the way, right and left, and the women were blond and wore gold jewellery, and I said, “What is this?”, and I said, “And why have you brought me here?”, and Ren said, “Not to be rude,”—you know it is trouble when someone prefaces a statement with “Not to be rude”—but because she is not shy, she said: “Not to be rude, but it is more fun to do this with Joo, because he likes to go into the shops and try on the fancy clothes.”

“Why don’t I just squat here on the street and eat noodles out of a bowl,” I said. “I can do it, and I will.”

She grabbed me by the arm and we marched off to Regent presto, giggle giggle giggle.



And I don’t know how the week flew by, but it did, with dinners in and dinners out, and plenty of sit-downs for tea, and adventures like girls like to have: running up and down the stairs in a double-decker bus while the driver yelled for someone to help him reverse down the wrong street; fifteen-pound standing-room-only tickets to “Guys and Dolls”, bulbs flashing, hands jazzing, and Ewan McGregor hot as all hell; an ugly-gorgeous seventies flower-print silk dress stepping out of the changeroom at Selfridges, and Ren reduced to silence and eyes darting about; a Christie’s auction of vintage travel posters in all their dated beachy glory, where the auctioneer was a walrus, “Twelve-hundred-pounds-thank-you-sir, twelve-hundred-fifty-on-the-phone-thank-you- Annette, thirteen-hundred-to-Lady-Haddock,” and here I craned my neck and looked around for a fish in pearls and a monocle, but then I realised he’d said “the lady has it.”



Monday there was a man wanting to read my fortune on the corner of New Oxford and Charing Cross. He came up to us on the sidewalk and said: “I read your fortune. You are very lucky woman.” And I said, “Yes, I know, but I don’t want to know my future, and thank you all the same,” and he said “Alright” and seemed to understand.

Friday there was rowdy Carluccio’s dinner at Market Place with old friends from school, Henny and Suzzan and Thush, and hands waving and hugs all around like the priest’d just said to give each other the sign of peace. Twelve years on, we are Catholic schoolgirls after all, what can you do.



This week the social visits are over, and I am going to be VERY SERIOUS and VERY PROFESSIONAL. I have BUSINESS TO ATTEND TO, people. A phone line would be nice. An Internet connection would be nice. A job that pays some kind of money would be very, very nice. Yesterday after a good, long while at the Orange store, I finally settled on a mobile phone plan—and then the kind young man very kindly let me know that I didn’t have sufficient identification to open an account. I was like a goddamn magician in there, doves of paperwork flying out of my bag, and apparently none of it is enough to prove I am who I am and I live where I live.

Days like that you give up and go outside to walk about under a blue sky. And if you end up popping into a shoe shop and trading in your stretched-too-big flats that make you trip for new dirty-gold wedge heels, so be it. And may I say that not fifteen minutes later at Harvey Nichols, the Diane von Furstenberg salesgirl came over to admire them. That’s right, who needs a working phone line when fashion is on your side.

In other news, I am still trying to find a good radio station. I don’t know which one I’ve landed on this morning—it’s somewhere between 104 and 108 on the FM dial—but they are playing Kylie’s “Love at First Sight” and shimmy shimmy everything is good right now.