Last week, I had a meeting in The Wolseley. I love the Wolseley, my friends Kit and Sacha took me there first and I have been dropping in and delighted every since. The doorman, John, is also a smashing chap - he drops his t's, tips his hat, and makes me promise not to go home in anything not hailed by him. My mother would love him.
Having had the best bacon and chicken sandwich ever (and giggled at the country girl stabbing her chips to annoy her mum with polished silverware and a practised pout) I had to go in to Fortnums, equally as British, equally traditional, equally great. Whilst some people think that it's just a building of upper class nonsense, it's really nothing of the sort. The doormen also make me giggle ('oh go on' one told me once 'nick something, I never have anything to do here') it has the best of everything from soap to soup from leather to lemons and it's beautiful.
And... it was raining. That sort of quiet, almost kind rain, that wishes it wouldn't but sort of has to - so it rains delicately, but just enough - beckoning umbrellas and dusting shoulders, warm but still wet. The sort of rain that ends up making rainbows...
Now, whilst I love walking in the rain, I was late for a meeting, so I was one of many people along Piccadilly suddenly sticking their hand out lending wobbly routes to boys on bikes they hadn't seen. My lucky London day just got better though, and I got possibly one of the world's biggest Elvis fans to pick me up, singing along loudly, somewhat badly and terribly boldly all at the same time. He sung along to every word he knew and whistled the bits in between or simply made up his own lyrics. I couldn't help smiling.
London is a lovely place, and our cabbies are some - if not The Best - in the world. I love London, I love being sung to, looked after, served well and even - even, rained on.
I tipped him a £5 and gave him a wink. 'God bless you poppet' he said, and winked straight back...
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