My body has been hovering between sickness and health over the last couple of weeks, while I waited to see which side of the line he’d decide to come down on. I woke this morning, heavy of head and thick of throat, and figured a choice had been made. It’s FINE: I don’t have a job, plus outside it’s drippy like my nose, so it’s not like I have anywhere I need to be.

I am self-medicating with hot honey and lemon drinks, Dinah Washington from the kitchen, and Saturday’s Guardian Weekend magazine. I’d normally have the Sunday Observer, too, except that I was so enamoured of my new Internet connection that I forgot to leave the house yesterday, ha-ha!

No, no, I did leave the house—for an evening walk towards Mayfair, in the direction of the setting sun. Closing in on six o’clock, the clouds were creamy streaks in a peach sky while the light bulbs at the Ritz lit up like the smile of a Darlie man in a top hat.



Minamoto Kitchoan is next to La Maison du Chocolat on Piccadilly, which makes it hard for a girl to choose. I went for the Japanese, eventually, because the packaging is the perfect amount of delicate and fancy for a gift to a visiting aunt. Also, I wanted a persimmon jelly. And a chestnut sweet.

And then the newspaper, well, I wasn’t thinking about the newspaper.