El rang tonight, having just got back from a long weekend in Derbyshire. Apparently, there was snow – two inches of it. Gosh.
She has booked a table for Friday evening at a restaurant not far from St Pauls, so we’ll meet there I should think – her office is in Mayfair and Phil’s is in Islington. I get into London at half past ten in the morning, so I’m fancy-free for the day.
I babysat this evening, which was very quiet. I arrived while the children were having their nighttime beakers of milk and once they were in bed they fell asleep and didn’t make another sound. I read, watched television, and fell asleep myself in the middle of Nigella. I was a bit underwhelmed by her crumbling bought cake, pouring ginger wine over it, whipping a lot of cream and dumping it on the cake, cutting up underripe passion fruits and scraping them on top and calling it a trifle that all her friends thought she had slaved for days over. They were being polite, darling. I’m sure it tasted good, but they all knew what you had done.