Plan B and I were realising our age: a 20-something-year-old pop artist and his girlfriend were amused at our jokes (admittedly Plan B’s in particular). The girlfriend took a few glasses of Prosecco as we left one Notting Hill art gallery for another and passed me one. The others either brazenly knocked back their glasses or subtly hid them as we walked up Portobello Road; I felt awkward and wanted to rush back with my glass and apologise to the gallery owner.

While nursing a hangover the following day I received a message from one gallery manager, ‘I had an absolute ball meeting you and Plan B – please let me know next time you’re in town!’
Plan B was bemused, ‘Could he really have had that much of a good time?’

Over the next few days I caught up with friends over a Healthy Veggie breakfast at Lucky 7, tapas lunch in the private room at Dehesa and dinner at the bar of Nopi. I admired the James Bond-themed windows at Harrods and the Great British wool-themed windows of Harvey Nics; the models dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of OZ outside the V&A to celebrate their latest exhibition; the up-and-coming designers at Topshop Oxford Street. It wasn’t until 1am that anyone checked the time following dinner at Monique’s on Sunday. I felt tired and irritable by the time I arrived home to Hot Danish after a four-hour delay at Heathrow.

There were friends I hadn’t managed to catch up with while in London, including a friend who had recently been made redundant, and Ellen whose daughter had been ill. Ellen asked how my weekend was. ‘London is so fab,’ she agreed. ‘But it is also pretty exhausting… Enjoy dipping in and out.’

And despite the free exhibitions, great sales and restaurants to suit all budgets, it’s still difficult not to blow the budget… ‘Do you know how much you spent?’ HD asked.
‘Er, it was a bit like when I lived in London… I avoided checking my balance,’ I admitted. ‘And if I didn’t recognise a phone number, I’d ignore it.’