We were dropping all sorts of things at lunch, Suzzan and me, first a fork, and then almost a fork again, and then a dollop of tiramisù soft like a pillow made of clouds. Suzzan says she drops stuff, but I think I win, because the stuff I drop, when it is not the sharp edge of a knife on my finger, is myself. Me, I have been known to trip on flat ground, to fall from a standing-still position.

In any case.

We were dropping all sorts of things at lunch today, not names, alas, no “Jude is coming by tonight”, no no.

Hum. I don’t know how I get distracted, I just do.

But.

We were lunching at Bar Italia, a gorgonzola-artichoke-rocket panino to split, and then a dessert free-for-all. Suzzan and I go way back, at least way back enough to remember that time in ’91 or ’92, when we sat at a table at the Pinetree Club and there were more desserts than people. However, today we are PROPER LADIES with RESTRAINT and CONTROL, so there were exactly the same number of desserts as people, which is to say two, and I think it is appropriate to add here that one of those desserts starts with “pistachio” and ends in “cannoli”.

Bar Italia, a hideyhole of a café, with strings of garlic and legs of smoked meat hanging from the ceiling, and the firetruck of a Gaggia espresso machine sitting up front. Behind the zinc counter, Rocky Marciano, 1952–1956 undisputed heavyweight champion of the world, watches over us all—me, and Suzzan, and the line out the door, and the Italian waitstaff in the variety of racecar driver, architect, and hot Math student, grinning and calling us “bella” and shouting “Ciao” when we left.

If there is one thing that will probably never be said about me at the end of my life, it is that I was the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world. Also, probably, that I played bass trombone for the Parachute Regiment.

This sounds like a tangent, but, for once, it is not. It is an introduction to a story. And the story is this: I hadn’t seen Suzzan in years, so today we played catch-up. It is a wonderful thing to see an old friend after quite so long, and I’m not just saying this because the girl handed over a bag of gifts upon my arrival in Leicester Square. “They’re purple,” she said, and truly they were, a purple box of fudge and a surprise purple cauliflower from Borough Market. Will there be cauliflower soup this weekend? Purple cauliflower soup with caponata bruschetta to round up the purple troops? Hell, I don’t know. There might just be only fudge.

But the thing is, it is a wonderful thing to see an old friend after quite so long, because then all sorts of stories emerge, for example, like that a visit to Prague will likely result in the purchase and tasting of exquisite vanilla wafers, and like that Suzzan’s husband is a bass trombonist with the Parachute Regiment. I asked—and may have clapped with glee at this point—if he (a) wears a red suit with a red pillbox hat and gold rope detail and (b) plays said bass trombone while parachuting through the air, but the answers were no and no. Still. I will put money down on Bass Trombonist with the Parachute Regiment ranking in the top ten list of cool jobs.

This reminds me that I need a job. I am qualified neither to play bass trombone nor to parachute, but I would probably be a pretty fly children’s book editor, so everybody cross your fingers for things going according to plan.