A nearly blissful weekend in London with nearly August appropriate weather has put a gloss on my otherwise lacklustre life.
A Friday night camp-fire supper in the garden of Nel's house, a stroll down Portobello Road next morning where bargains jumped into my hands and practically paid for themselves, eggs benedict in Uncle's caff, Sin Nombre at the Gate in the afternoon with my ex husband, and corset, satin frock and lipstick at Liz's birthday party at Veeraswamy's in the evening. (I'd gone to try on the so-called Bombshell dress as reputedly owned by Nigella and therefore ideal for the fuller-figured woman but sadly, on me, it looked a tad too full and more of a Bomb Shelter, so it was back to the foundation garments. But they do stop you eating too much as you can't breathe, let alone eat wheat.
Sunday morning at 7am my friend was waiting for me and my brutally painful hangover at the front gate and off we went to Nine Elms where I bought an unboxed CD player that I fear may have fallen off the back of a lorry before landing in my arms, then on to Brick Lane for bagels and coffee and a Paracetamol top-up, followed by a walk through Columbia Road flower market.
'I haven't done this for twenty five years,' I told my friend as, miraculously, the sun reappeared from behind a cloud at the same time as a legal parking place. ' Last time I was pregnant. I came with Sue Hairy Legs...'
'Who?'
'Sue hairy legs - she was doing the same BA in Arabic as I was and, unlike Sue Chapstick, she had incredibly hairy legs. Like fur. And don't even get me started on her armpi...'
'...and Sue Chapstick?'
'addicted to it... Always, always putting it on.'
It's a testament to the girl's hirsuteness that a quarter of a century later it's the one thing I remember about her. And Sue Chapstick, who I still see now and again - continues to have the addiction. You'd think after all that time her lips would finally be soft.
I was totally charmed by the whole frenzy of people and colours and stall holders shouting out 'Curly wurlies - special today - two for a tenner. Cost you £25 quid at Homebase...) but my friend didn't 'as it happens' really get the vibe. I couldn't understand it. I was carrying brown paper sheaves of orange lilies, two pots of orchids a huge bunch of tangerine roses, half a dozen bagels from Brick Lane and a bag of pineapples as we strolled back to the car, just totally delighted with the day. Sometimes, London still gives me that on-holiday feel and I can't imagine why anyone would want to live anywhere else. I felt like I was in the film of my own life. 'All I need is Richard Curtis and Wet Wet Wet on the sound track,' I said.
'Richard who?' I don't think my friend does Rom Coms either, somehow.
By the time I arrived home to cook for the dinner party I was going to that evening (somehow I seem to have landed myself the role of meals on heels when I am invited out to supper), I was so relaxed that I was horizontal - in the hammock under the fig tree for much of the slow, sleepy afternoon - waiting for the bread to rise.
And best of all, there was nobody home.
I called youngest: 'Where are you?'
'I stayed at Ella's last night. (She did? Horrible negligent mother, I came in so late and so, erm, tired, that I hadn't noticed) and I'll just hang out here today and chill. Back tomorrow. Maybe.'
Cue loud triumphant music, or at least a 12 year old Primal Scream CD with volume blasted out on the Arthur Daley music system. Flowers everywhere. Kitchen full of the smell of baking bread. My eldest, who arrived home from work after giving me six hours of total solitude, persuaded me to go to the park to pick blackberries. We returned with purple stained fingers. Nigella, with or without your Bombshell dress, eat your heart out.
At 7.30 I walked round to my neighbour's house carrying a tray with a bread ring stuffed with eggs, mozzarella, spinach and tomoatoes, roasted potatoes with chili and garlic, and caramelized pineapples with lime. My friend was sitting, limp and ill at her kitchen table, her face ashen, wearing a brave smile and a dress that looked a little bigger on her than it did the last time I saw her. She's on the second round of chemotherapy and had suddenly, just that evening, hit a horrible slump.
My momentary fantasy; someone else's nightmare. And of course, even in my weekend, I'm only giving you the gloss. The undercoat is, in places, very much darker.
