We had a bite to eat in our favourite little Italian deli, the Lucky Spot on North Audley Street, before hitting the shops. My goodness, hasn’t Selfridges changed since 1972? We went in for a box of Harold’s favourite cigars and found ourselves in a high-tech nightmare. Harold is not good in stores at the best of times, but got quite disoriented and started to hyperventilate, so I had to sit him down at the oyster bar and spoon half a dozen fines de claires down his neck before he calmed down. To our relief, we found the cigar counter exactly where it used to be, although the young man serving, who had obviously been drafted in from the food hall, thought a panatella was some kind of Italian bacon.
Our next quest was to find Harold some new kit. After years of pierogis and golonkas the tarpaulin is a little tautly stretched across the midships. Needless to say, when we finally found the menswear department there was nothing to suit him. Where is one to find a nice beige cardigan these days? I knew we should have stocked up in Warsaw. He spent a long time lurking hopefully around the leather trousers, but I caught him in time and dragged him off to Debenham’s.We were sorely tempted to go to see the new Harry Potter film, especially since the mystic midget’s features were staring down at us from every billboard. I had the strangest feeling I’d seen that child before, and quite recently, but couldn’t quite remember where. The film was fully booked anyway, so we went to see the new production of “The King and I” starring Josie Lawrence - and then went for supper in Chinatown, where Harold had fun folding his crispy pancakes into fans and singing “Getting to Know You” to the inscrutable waitress. When we got the bill, however, Harold said Lee Ho Fook very loudly. “Same to you mate,” snapped the waitress in an accent that put the Ching in Chingford, snatching our fifty quid and marching off smartly.
On Sunday we went for a wander round the British Museum, where we walked for miles through the various halls. The interior courtyard is quite lovely, with the reading room still unchanged (apart from computer terminals at the reading desks) – V.I. Lenin was still sitting there, muttering about upgrading his browser. I left Harold playing Indiana Jones in the Egyptian Rooms while I went to see the free exhibition on the Orient Express, to get myself in the mood for the Pink Ball. There’s a real carriage from the original train, all beautiful marquetry and damask interiors. I sat down on a banquette and closed my eyes …
in a trice I was travelling in luxury through central Europe with my faithful old retainer Imelda, blowing Sobranie smoke callously in the face of the suave and besotted millionnaire playboy Count Sven of Svenland, whilst graciously accepting a glass of champagne from the deferential Austrian steward Harald. Chief Inspector Fatty Fortescue was investigating the mysterious disappearance of my priceless diamond ring, and the chief suspect was Myfanwy Llanfairpwllgggggh, a lady druid who was travelling to Budapest for a wizards’ conference. I was the only person who knew that Myfanwy was in fact the mistress of Brigadier Bodger, and they were planning to elope together after Bodger had poisoned his wife Cynthia. However, their plan was foiled by the sudden arrival of Harry Potter who denounced the culprits, swiftly followed by Mrs Akiko with a tray of sushi, and as I bit into a succulent fua-gua I nearly choked on my diamond ring …. I was woken abruptly by the curator who told me that I was snoring like a wildebeest, which was strictly prohibited while the train was standing in the station.Harold had been gasping for a curry since we left Poland, and so we ventured, on the advice of our friendly neighbourhood chemist Mr Patel, to the Chinatown of balti restaurants in Whitechapel. The restaurant owners are very friendly, practically dragging you in off the street with offers of free bottles of wine, free popadoms, etc. (I gather business hasn’t been too brisk lately for some reason). We chose a restaurant that looked as though it might have decent toilets, and Harold ordered the hottest vindaloo they could concoct. I know my limits when it comes to Indian food, and stuck to the cream of tomato soup and mixed grill. Harold thoroughly enjoyed his balti, scooping it up with naan bread in the time-honoured fashion. I noticed beads of sweat forming across his forehead, and asked if he was all right. He made a noise like someone drowning, but nodded happily. A bit later I was a bit worried by the steam coming out of his ears and the tears streaming down his face, but he assured me in sign language (he couldn’t actually speak by now) that he was enjoying every mouthful. When he finally finished his meal he managed to croak, in the few seconds before he made a dash for the men’s room, that it was the best curry he had tasted since the one in Doolallabad in 1951 which left him with second-degree burns. Frankly, I prefer my dinner to come with a little less … pain. But each to his own, I suppose. For the record, we went to the Sheraz in Brick Lane. Get off at Aldgate East and follow your nose.
