If you're going to get caught shoplifting, it might was well be from one of the best shops in the world.

Wednesday 14th July 2004.

London, night four and hopefully beyond, I'll be back with another
London saga before I get this bugger written up! And it's not as if my
life has been on standstill since I returned. All sorts has
happened.

After leaving Chris it was a mad race against time. I had to get the
books back to the ABCTales office before the lads shut up for the night
and it wasn't looking good. First things first though, I sat on a wall
outside the Premier building and put my pumps back on. I could imagine
Chris looking out of a window and laughing.

I was off, full of myself. I ran, sprinted like I haven't done since I
was a kid, skirt flying behind me, grin on my face. I made it to the
high street without stopping and weaved between the crowds. There was a
bollard, I wanted to leap frog it but remembered my long skirt and had
a mental image of bolloksing myself and lying sprawled inelegantly on
Covent Garden high street waiting for an ambulance to arrive, not good,
so I made do with having a twirl, just because it felt good. People
looked at me, I wondered if they thought I was being chased, caught
shop lifting or something. I didn't stop until I got to the tube
station. Felt exhilarated, high. I ran down the stairs, all a hundred
and ninety two of them. I knew it wouldn't gain me any time, I'd still
have to wait for the train to arrive, but I did it because I was happy.
I love London.

I got to the platform, right one, clever girl and was knackered. I
wondered how long it would take paramedics to arrive if I had a heat
attack. A tube station platform is not my romantic idea of a good place
to die. The line was down from somewhere to somewhere else. I felt very
cosmopolitan reading the maps and working out that it wouldn't affect
me until my journey back. I smiled at everyone on the tube, bumped
against a very lovely young man who was squashed in behind me and
enjoyed every minute of it. When the train stopped I said, "I'm Sooz, I
think I should at least introduce myself after we've been so intimate,"
he blushed and laughed. I refrained from telling him that it was the
nearest I'd come to sex in months.

I was convinced that the Tales office would be shuttered up by the
time I got there and was delighted when the door was answered, gossiped
with M and T for a few minutes, returned the books and left. I felt a
bit shy and awkward, that's stupid and not like me. When I saw them on
the Wednesday I was so pleased to see them again that I didn't feel shy
at all.

I was off again back to Knightsbridge this time. The Tube was down from
Hyde Park corner so I had to take a bus. I almost decided to walk back
through the park but the old pins were aching and I'd probably have got
horrendously lost.

Martha was still out when I got home. So I sat talking to Maurio. I
asked him why he didn't buy larger premises for his restaurant, with it
being so successful. More space equals more revenue, seems logical to
me. I still didn't *quite* get it. He explained that he'd tried it and
it doesn't work. If people have room to be isolated it becomes just
like any other restaurant. The city place is big. It caters for a
different clientele. That one only opens lunchtimes to get the business
crowd in. It's an old converted Victorian baths and is very beautiful
apparently. He said that for the evening crowd it has to be basement,
it has to be intimate and it has to be small enough to not be able to
meet the demand. He's a clued up bloke who knows his stuff.

We went down to the restaurant again that evening. Friday is soul
night. Alice, from All Saints was in. she did a guest spot on the mic
and brought the house down. We, being creatures of habit, ordered the
same meal as the night before. I got a gentleman's phone number. He was
Italian and came over to our table. He introduced himself and said he
had something for me. He passed me a piece of paper with his phone
number on it. I was embarrassed and muttered something polite and was
glad that they were leaving. I had no intension of ringing him but it
was so flattering. Mary commented that while they were eating (and
drinking) they had a pile of fifty pound notes on the table. It's a
crazy world.

I went to the ladies and when I came out a familiar voice said, "Susan
Simpson!"

It was Chris. It was the most natural thing in the world to be on first
name terms and to give him a hug and a kiss.

"Hello Chris, what are you doing here?"

"Well I had this mad woman writer who wears little girl's plimsoles on
my mind all afternoon. It's my son's birthday and I thought, now where
can I take him? I know, I'll take him down Maurio's."

It was such a small thing but I was delighted. It showed that I had
made an impression on him and that he wasn't going to forget about me.
He told me that he'd hoped I'd be there because he'd brought his
graphic designer, Keith down to talk to me.

We chatted some more and then he squeezed my arm and told me to talk to
Keith. I felt so awkward. I didn't know what to say. Maurio's book cost
him twenty grand, presumably, at least two grand of that would have
been spent on the cover design. I haven't got that kind of money. I
talked generally to Kieth and he told me to give him a shout when I
needed some work doing. I smiled and said I would and left it at that.
I will too, if ever I can afford him!

It was another fantastic night. I really enjoyed myself. At the end of
the night we went through the same rigmarole as the night before. I
tried to pay our bill and they effused to accept any money from us. One
of Martha's big bugbears, when she manages the restaurants for Maurio,
is that he spends thousands every year on entertaining. Some of it is
speculate to accumulate 'celebrity' entertaining which pays dividends.
The rest is spent feeding all the freeloaders who call themselves
friends of Maurio. There is no way that I wanted the staff to think
that I was another one of those. At the end of every evening I tried to
pay for what we'd had and they refused to take a penny because Maurio
had left instruction that we were to be given whatever we wanted. I
made a point of putting twenty pounds a night in the staff tip box. It
didn't cover what we'd had, but even though nobody knew about it, I
knew that I'd paid something for the evening.

It was another late, late night.

Saturday was going to be another day of sightseeing and shopping. We
wanted to go to Phantom, Saturday night. I woke up happy and raring to
go.

Maurio had tons of family coming for lunch and of course we were
invited to stay for the meal. It would have been rude to refuse and
Martha hadn't seen some of these people for years. Throughout the
morning people arrived, all speaking Italian, it made for boisterous
conversation. Madonna was in her element cooking for the five thousand
and wouldn't accept any help in her kitchen. Martha had a lot of
catching up to do so I suggested that as there were so many at table
that Maurio's girlfriend and I eat in the kitchen. She didn't know any
of the newcomers either. Of course, there was an ulterior motive, I
didn't want to eat in front of all those strangers anyway.

I couldn't tell you the name of Maurio's girlfriend even if I tried.
It's something long and unpronounceable. She is a Russian immigrant and
I didn't care for her very much. Maurio has left a string of
girlfriends and ex wives in his wake, this one will not last long. She
is nineteen, very beautiful and conforms to the usual Maurio standard,
tiny, beautiful, young and eager to please in the bedroom. I try not to
judge people but she is little more than a prostitute. She sits around
all day, too lazy to even empty her own ashtray, letting Madonna run
around after her. On the day she met Maurio she told him that she
needed a place to stay and someone to pay her through university. They
are both using each other. Maurio gets a bed partner and eye candy, she
gets paid through university and everything she asks for. And she's not
slow in asking either. The situation disgusts me. Maurio will cast her
aside when he's bored with her and she'll move on to a doctor he has
already lined up for her. The arrangement suits them so who am I to
judge them on their lifestyle? Anyway, little miss wifey, wasn't going
to eat in the lowly kitchen. She wanted her rightful place at the
dining table. Martha and I ate in the kitchen with Madonna eating on
the hoof as she played waitress. This suited me perfectly. I felt sorry
for Martha though but she said she didn't mind in the least and had
already had a chance to speak to everybody. She would have said if she
wasn't happy.

First course was pasta. First course is always pasta. This time Madonna
had cooked plain pasta with broccoli, nothing else, just pasta and
broccoli. It was even better than the plain pasta with beans. The woman
can make the most basic, bland looking food taste wonderful. Main
course was poached cod, sprinkled with lemon juice and served with a
few saut?ed vegetables. I hate fish. I have never eaten fish in my
life. The few times that I've tasted it, I've hated it. Now, I'm not
going to say the woman has transformed me into a fish fan, far from it
but by the time the main course was served I was still eating the
pasta. Mixed with pasta and veg I couldn't taste the fish, only the
lemon. It was beautiful and I decided there and then to re-create the
meal when I got home. I did and it was horrible! Pudding was a home
made rum babba. Maurio insisted that we joined them at table for the
dessert. The cake looked dry and there was no cream or ice-cream to go
with it. Again appearances can be deceptive. Maurio dished up. I asked
him to just give me a tiny slice as that's all I'd be able to manage.
He took no noticed and piled a huge portion on my plate. It was so
light and airy that it took no getting down at all. Despite looking
dry, you could suck the moisture out of it. The thing was a massive
sponge and was loaded with rum and fruit juice. It was gorgeous and I
managed to eat the whole slice. True Italian fare is nothing like the
stuff we get in the restaurants. It's simple and basic, good for you
and so bloody good that I can't wait to go back on the 6th
August.

After lunch, I had my downfall. Martha called me into the bedroom to
weight ourselves. We had walked miles. We had walked London end to end
several times over. I hadn't eaten much at all really, often going all
day without anything and only eating in the restaurant at night. For
me, it's physically impossible to over eat anyway. I was convinced that
I must have lost over half a stone at least. Martha got on the scales
first. She was delighted she was over a stone lighter than she thought
she was, though she admitted that it's a long time since she's been
weighed. I was smiling when I got on. I didn't smile for bloody long
though. I had put on nine pounds in four days. I was furious and in the
blackest mood I've had for a long time. I have been told by my
consultant that it is impossible for me to put on any weight. I was
mortified. Luckily it turned out to be a false alarm but I didn't know
that at the time. I don't drink enough, never have done. An average day
for me (no visitors and no alcohol) would mean a drink of fresh orange
juice in the morning and a coffee at about tea time. When I have
visitors, I pay lip service to having a brew but only ever drink about
a third of it. With drinking so much, constant coffee's and hot
chocolates, vodka and cocktails every night, I had retained fluid. Once
I got back home and back into my normal routine, I lost the extra
weight in just a few days.

We finally got into town. I was still furious. Having got off the tube
at Piccadilly Circus, we took the road directly opposite the tube
station heading North. What a load of arty farty, poncy hoi-polloi
bloody shops. Designer, designer, designer, they left me cold. Looking
in shops that I can't afford is similar to pining for a man out of your
league. What's the point? Martha however, was in her element. "Oh Sooz,
look at this. Wouldn't you just die for that?" Most of the stuff was
not only expensive, but was bloody horrendous to boot. It seems to me,
that once you don a silly price tag, you lose all sense of taste and
style. Hah, says she, who wears some of the most outlandish stuff ever
to come under the needle. Martha and I are very different.

I had had so little sleep, I was mortified about the extra half stone
(and one pound) and I was in a thoroughly bad mood. We hunted for a
coffee shop. Could we find one, could we buggery! I must have lain
awkwardly on the sofa, I had a very painful lower backache. We walked
another couple of miles before we found somewhere to just sit and have
a coffee. I wanted comfy seating and a ten minute slob. What we got
were high , no backed, metal stools. They had to be some Victorian
implement of torture. Worse, the only seats available were no smoking,
AND, we plonked right in front of a bloody great mirror. Well, that was
just taking the piss. I glared at myself, told myself to, "drop dead"
and burned myself on the coffee that had the usual cold froth on the
top and fire water from the pits hell underneath.

"What is the matter with you? Will you stop fucking moaning?" I
realised that I was being damned selfish. Okay, so I was in a rattie, I
didn't have to let the whole world and his sister in on the fact. I
decided then to do something about my attitude, if only for Martha's
sake. We left and I was in serious pain from my back now. After another
half hour and another couple of miles, we found a Mark's and Spencer.
It was the only 'normal' shop in a ten mile radius it seemed. I bought
a few pressies that I could just as easily have bought from home the
following Monday and not had to lug all the way back. We stopped for
another coffee. I wanted plush seating and poor Martha put up with me
walking in and out of three caf?'s before settling on the fourth, still
hard seats. I had a big, false smile on my face and angry black lead in
my pupils. I took some paracetamol, now why the hell didn't I do that
five hours earlier? My backache lifted and so did my bad mood. Martha
asked what I wanted to do. All I wanted as to get back to the flat and
find somewhere to sit down in peace. She'd had enough too so we agreed
to go home, relax for awhile and then get ready for a night out at the
theatre and then onto Maurio's. I was really looking forward to that
and felt much happier.

We got the tube back to Knightsbridge and I managed to not snarl at
anybody who got in my way. As we were passing Harrods, Martha suggested
a stroll around there. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was
her holiday too so I plastered that grin back on and in we went. We had
a brilliant time. The backache had really brought me down and without
that I felt a lot better. I managed to find a very reasonable game for
Marty at ?17.99. He likes board games and I knew he'd be pleased with
it. Martha wanted to see the Di and Dodi memorial so we went down to
that. I found that I had got my fifty-sixth wind and was actually
enjoying myself. Martha bought herself a pair of earrings and we
prepared to leave.

As we walked through the doors, bing, bing, bing, bing, bing, bing,
bing the security alarms went off. Martha and I ignored them and
carried on walking in the midst of a large crowd of other people
leaving the shop. I had that split second horror thought of, oh God,
please don't let me have absent mindedly picked something up that I've
forgotten to put back again. I checked both my hands and didn't have
the Fiad jewels in my mitt and breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't me.
A large hand came down on Martha's shoulder.

"Excuse me madam."

"Eh? What? It isn't me," she said defiantly, colouring up.

"If you could just step back into the shop, madam."

Well, things were looking up. This was the best thing that had happened
all day. I couldn't resist.

"Thief, thief," I shouted. A crowd was gathering. "Martha, I told you
not to steal anything, didn't I? I told you that you'd never get away
with it in here. Why do you always have to do this?"

Everybody was looking at her. She was mortified at first but knowing
that she'd done nothing wrong she took it in good spirit and played
along. She put her wrists out. "Go on, handcuff me. Pat me down if you
like," she said doing the actions of being frisked. It was the security
guards turn to blush. And blush he did.

"Hey, that's not fair," I wasn't having that. "If he frisks you, I'm
going back to rob that ten grand ring. Why do you get all the good
stuff?"

It turned out that the security tag hadn't been taken off her earrings.
She had the receipt and he apologised. I wanted to get a photo of
Martha with a security guard on wither side leading her away, but they
were too embarrassed and wouldn't go for it. So I had to make do with a
quick snap of one, very red-faced guard and a Martha with a mile wide
grin. That was just what we needed to buck us up.

We got lost, we were only a couple of hundred yards from the flat, but
the security guard took us away from the front door and we lost our
bearings. We ended up somewhere around the back of Harrods in a
courtyard of Victorian townhouses. They all seemed to be flat
conversions now, but it was lovely walking along and imagining what it
must have been like in the time of horse drawn carriages and long
skirts.

We soon found ourselves on the street that the restaurant is situated
on. We decided to go in, in our scruffs, to get something to eat, at
last, comfy seats. We shared a meal of chicken and salad with pizza
bread. It was wonderful.

I asked Martha the time, expecting it to be somewhere around five o
clock, It was eight ten. We had completely missed, not only the time to
get ready for our night out, but also the theatre itself. We had been
in Harrods for over two hours. While Martha was being accused of
shoplifting, some malignant pixie had stolen our time. We went home,
got changed and came straight back to the restaurant for our last night
in London. Serpent, the bar manager, kept sending tequila sunrise over
for us, they were sweet, strong and loaded. We celebrated our trip at
midnight by sharing a slice of strawberry cheesecake. It was
delicious.

It was Latino night at Maurio's. We left in the early hours on a high,
after much kissing, cuddling and promising to return.

Tomorrow we would return to the real world.