An interesting weekend. I spend Saturday holed up in a hotel in Paddington’s red light district - because of the London marathon the hotel I usually stay in is fully booked - working on three features due in on Monday morning. ‘Could be useful if you need to earn some extra money,’ observes one work contact wryly, when I tell him where I am.
On Sunday, I am up at 6.30am to meet a photographer at a vintage clothing fair in West London. We spend a morning photographing some very wonderful and eccentric characters - some of them so passionate about vintage, it is difficult to get away.
I leave clutching two vintage Laura Ashley linen teatowels from the sixties bought for £50 (well, it seemed like a bargain at the time) and a rose printed fifties handbag. Chatting to former fashion editor turned vintage dealer on the steps outside, I receive a call from The Man.
‘Where are you?’ he asks.
‘On the steps of Chelsea Town Hall, I reply. ‘Where are you?’
‘High Wycombe. On my way to London to see you.’
He arrives 45 minutes later and takes me out for Lebansese food at Marroush on the Edgware Road. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since Venice. He has driven 200 miles round trip to take me out to lunch and I guess that has to be worth some brownie points.