For my Mum.
“I can’t understand why it’s so hard to find tea cosies, or tea caddies for that matter” I said to M, as we meandered through the streets of Oxfordshire in search of either.
Our first stop was the local hardware store. “You might find something in here” M said, as the ding ding of the door sounded.
I’ve always loved a hardware store. The utilitarian nature of the ambiance – to say nothing of the products is deeply appealing. Bygone weekly Saturday morning trips to one of the most interesting shops in small town Ireland may be partly responsible. I’d cycle in, eagerly anticipating what I would find there. My trusty Dawes bicycle left to lean up against the shopfront window, I’d open the door to wood-infused scents, the steel of nails and screws, drawers and aisles of everything you could possibly need to do and fix with under a ceiling that seemed endless.
“Ah, the crystal of Belarus; unsurpassed” said a man leaning against one of the many bars at this elegant townhouse club in Soho, holding his whiskey glass up to examine it.
One of my favourite things to do is to take myself out for dinner. The venue is crucial. One has to feel at ease – dining alone is not for the faint hearted after all. But, if you should happen upon the right place, it’s heavenly.
You know you’ve got a good New Year’s Eve on your hands when you sweep through two sets of grand curtains to be met by a kilt wearing Scot brandishing a saxophone. I say sweep, because that’s all you can do in a Tiffany-style 
It’s become a tradition now with my old chum E and I – a red cup Gingerbread Latte at any given Starbucks pre Christmas, and this year we were at E’s local deep in the heart of the City of London.
Conversations with Strangers 