In the meantime, let’s move on to the next glass case.

Carved goblet, English, mid–15th century

God, I could die for a cup of coffee. How long have I been here? It must be. .

Oh. Only fifteen minutes.



When I get to the gallery showing a history of fashion, I become quite rigorous and scholarly. In fact, I spend longer there than anywhere else. But then the dresses and shoes come to an end and it’s back to more statues and little fiddly things in cases. I keep looking at my watch, and my feet hurt. . and in the end I sink down onto a sofa.

Don’t get me wrong, I like museums. I do. And I’m really interested in Korean art. It’s just that the floors are really hard, and I’m wearing quite tight boots, and it’s hot so I’ve taken off my jacket but now it keeps slithering around in my arms. And it’s weird, but I keep thinking I can hear the sound of a cash till. It must be in my imagination.

I’m sitting blankly, wondering if I can summon the energy to stand up again, when the group of Japanese tourists comes into the gallery, and I feel compelled to get to my feet and pretend I’m looking at something. I peer vaguely at a piece of tapestry, then stride off down a corridor lined with exhibits of old Indian tiles. I’m just thinking that maybe we should get the Fired Earth catalogue and retile the bathroom, when I glimpse something through a metal grille and stop dead with shock.

Am I dreaming? Is it a mirage? I can see a cash register, and a queue of people, and a display cabinet with price tags. .

Oh my God, I was right! It’s a shop! There’s a shop, right there in front of me!

Suddenly my steps have more spring in them; my energy has miraculously returned. Following the bleeping sound of the cash register, I hurry round the corner to the shop entrance and pause on the threshold, telling myself not to raise my hopes, not to be disappointed if it’s just bookmarks and tea towels.

But it’s not. It’s bloody fantastic! Why isn’t this place better known? There’s a whole range of gorgeous jewelry, and loads of really interesting books on art, and there’s all this amazing pottery, and greeting cards, and. .

Oh. But I’m not supposed to be buying anything today, am I? Damn.

This is awful. What’s the point of discovering a new shop and then not being able to buy anything in it? It’s not fair. Everyone else is buying stuff, everyone else is having fun. For a while I hover disconsolately beside a display of mugs, watching as an Australian woman buys a pile of books on sculpture. She’s chatting away to the sales assistant, and suddenly I hear her say something about Christmas. And then I have a flash of pure genius.

Christmas shopping! I can do all my Christmas shopping here! I know March is a bit early, but why not be organized? And then when Christmas arrives I won’t have to go near the horrible Christmas crowds. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of doing this before. And it’s not breaking the rules, because I’d have to buy Christmas presents sometime, wouldn’t I? All I’m doing is shifting the buying process forward a bit. It makes perfect sense.

And so, about an hour later, I emerge happily with two carrier bags. I’ve bought a photograph album covered in William Morris print, an old-fashioned wooden jigsaw puzzle, a book of fashion photographs, and a fantastic ceramic teapot. God, I love Christmas shopping. I’m not sure what I’ll give to who — but the point is, these are all timeless and unique items that would enhance any home. (Or at least the ceramic teapot is, because that’s what it said on the little leaflet.) So I reckon I’ve done really well.

In fact, this morning has been a great success. As I emerge from the museum, I feel incredibly content and uplifted. It just shows the effect that a morning of pure culture has on the soul. From now on, I decide, I’m going to spend every Saturday morning at a museum.



When I get back home, the second post is on the doormat and there’s a square envelope addressed to me in writing I don’t recognize. I rip it open as I lug my carrier bags to my room — and then stop in surprise. It’s a card from Luke Brandon. How did he get my home address? Dear Rebecca, it says, It was good to bump into you the other night, and I do hope you had an enjoyable evening. I now realize that I never thanked you for the prompt repayment of my loan. Much appreciated.With all best wishes — and, of course, deepest sympathy on the loss of your Aunt Ermintrude. (If it’s any consolation, I can’t imagine that scarf could suit anyone better than you.)


Luke.

For a while I stare at it silently. I’m quite taken aback. Gosh, I think cautiously. It’s nice of him to write, isn’t it? A nice handwritten card like this, just to thank me for my card. I mean, he’s not just being polite, is he? You don’t have to send a thank-you card to someone just because they repaid your twenty quid.

Or do you? Maybe, these days, you do. Everyone seems to send cards for everything. I haven’t got a clue what’s done and what’s not anymore. (I knew I should have read that etiquette book I got in my stocking.) Is this card just a polite thank-you? Or is it something else? And if so. . what?

Is he taking the piss?

Oh God, that’s it. He knows Aunt Ermintrude doesn’t exist. He’s just pulling my leg to embarrass me.

But then. . would he go to all the trouble of buying a card, writing in it, and sending it, just to pull my leg?

Oh, I don’t know. Who cares? I don’t even like him, anyway.



Having been so cultured all morning, I deserve a bit of a treat in the afternoon, so I buy myself Vogue and a bag of Minstrels, and lie on the sofa for a bit. God, I’ve missed little treats like this. I haven’t read a magazine for. . well, it must be a week, except Suze’s copy of Cosmo yesterday. And I can’t remember the last time I tasted chocolate.

I can’t spend too long enjoying myself, though, because I’ve got to go out and buy the stuff for our homemade curry. So after I’ve read my horoscope, I close Vogue and get out my new Indian recipe book. I’m quite excited, actually. I’ve never made curry before.

I’ve gone off the tiger prawn recipe because it turns out tiger prawns are very expensive. So what I’m going to make instead is chicken and mushroom Balti. It all looks very cheap and easy, and I just need to write out my shopping list.

When I’ve finished I’m a bit taken aback. The list is quite a lot longer than I’d thought it would be. I hadn’t realized you needed so many spices just to make one curry. I’ve just looked in the kitchen, and we don’t have a Balti pan, or a grinder for grinding spices, or a blender for making the aromatic paste. Or a wooden spoon or any scales that work.

Still, never mind. What I’ll do is quickly go to Peter Jones and buy all the equipment we need for the kitchen, and then I’ll get the food and come back and start cooking. The thing to remember is, we only have to buy all this stuff once — and then we’re fully equipped to make delicious curries every night. I’ll just have to think of it as an investment.



By the time Suze arrives back from Camden Market that evening, I am dressed in my new stripy apron, grinding up roasted spices in our new grinder.

“Phew!” she says, coming into the kitchen. “What a stink!”

“It’s aromatic spices,” I say a bit crossly, and take a swig of wine. To be honest, this is all a bit more difficult than I’d thought. I’m trying to make something called Balti masala mix, which we will be able to keep in a jar and use for months, but all the spices seem to be disappearing into the grinder and refusing to come back out. Where are they going?

“I’m absolutely starving,” says Suze, pouring herself a glass of wine. “Will it be ready soon?”

“I don’t know,” I say, peering into the grinder. “If I can just get these bloody spices out. .”

“Oh well,” says Suze. “I might just make some toast.” She pops a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and then starts picking up all my little bags and pots of spices and looking at them.

“What’s allspice?” she says, holding up a pot curiously. “Is it all the spices, mixed together?”

“I don’t know,” I say, banging the grinder on the counter. A tiny dusting of powder falls out and I stare at it angrily. What happened to a whole jarful that I could keep for months? Now I’ll have to roast some more of the bloody things.

“Because if it is, couldn’t you just use that and forget all the others?”

“No!” I say. “I’m making a fresh and distinct Balti blend.”

“OK,” says Suze, shrugging. “You’re the expert.”

Right, I think, taking another swig of wine. Start again. Coriander seeds, fennel seeds, cumin seeds, peppercorns. . By this time, I’ve given up measuring, I’m just throwing everything in. They say cooking should be instinctive, anyway.

“What’s this?” says Suze, looking at Luke Brandon’s card on the kitchen table. “Luke Brandon? How come he sent you a card?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, shrugging casually. “He was just being polite.”

“Polite?” Suze wrinkles her brow, turning the card over in her hands. “No way. You don’t have to send a card to someone just because they returned your twenty quid.”

“Really?” My voice is slightly higher than usual, but that must be because of the roasting aromatic spices. “I thought maybe that’s what people did these days.”

“Oh no,” says Suze assuredly. “What happens is, the money’s lent, it’s returned with a thank-you letter, and that’s the end of the matter. This card”— she waves it at me —“this is something extra.”

This is why I love sharing a flat with Suze. She knows stuff like this, because she mixes in the right social circles. You know she once had dinner with the duchess of Kent? Not that I’m boasting, or anything.