Whooo, life is good, a walk down Electric Avenue, the market’s out, blue-and-white striped tarpaulin on one side, shading pyramids of fruit and veg. Butchers line the other side, they smile hello between the naked chickens hanging above the counter. Display cases pink with meat, the smell is raw, red, sharp in the air, and salt beef’s on special. I’m filmed for TV, I say “It’s a matter of semantics, isn’t it”, the pretty boy street interviewer says “You speak English better than me.” Hot chocolate upstairs at the Ritzy before hopping the Routemaster home, then a phone call invite to dinner as I’m putting a pan on the stove. Sweet mangoes and pomegranate seeds at number twenty-two. Post-midnight, I pretend to refuse, he pretends to listen, we head out to wait for the night bus. I stay up too late, I spend too long on international phone calls, I bake truffle tarts. In the afternoon, the boys at Bar Italia bring a foamy cappuccino before I can say a word, whooo, life is good.