The amazing Persephone Ooks — oops, I mean Books, on one of my fave streets, Lamb’s Conduit. PB is an amazing champion of The Sisterhood. La Triv had one of their diaries last year and I srsly loved it.
Greg Malouf is doing amazing things in Skye Gyngell’s place at Petersham Nurseries Cafe, including this divine dessert. Miss A and I were very, very lucky that La Belle Ange flew over from Dublin to take luncheon with us.
Miu Mius + cobbles = danger.
Regular readers may or may not be aware of La Triv’s insatiable obsession with vertical giardinettos — and this is a fab example of the species at Anthropologie on Regent Street.
I pilgrimaged to Scarlet & Violet, current florist to the stars. Vic Brotherson is a legend — I honed my amateur floral craft, such as it is, with her at Wild at Heart back in the day. She deserves to have people like Kate Moss and Nigella raving about her fleurs. I bought this for the Senior Seriousimos, at whose castello we were dossing and leaving all kinds of underwear and mess strewn about the historical floors.
Gods I love Regent’s Park. If I was the Regent, I’d live there on a full-time basis.
Now, on the coffee front, this was a FIND and a half. Run by lovely Aussies 1000 times groovier than I could ever have hoped to be when I was living in London at 22, with amazing food and off-the-charts-great coffee. Trust me, they give good bean.
*Sigh*. There are no words.
The amazing wit and eye of Monsieur Jonathan Adler knows no peer.
The male JCC alarmed me greatly by suggesting he would quite like one of these. Thanks, Mr Conran.
More Conran genius.
Tried to stalk some celebs in Primmy Hill, but found nowt but this cute battery-op pup. Both JCCs highly satisfied.
Was loving my Sugarsole electric bleu pumps, til the unceasing rain turned them into a trainwreck.
A much-missed fave of Seriousimo’s and mine. Tell Ashley we sent you. But whatever you do, don’t go with children — Ashley doesn’t even try to mask his hatred of them. But once you’ve tried the man’s wares, you’ll forgive him anything.
Gods, I’m so scared when I go into Ottolenghi that I will suddenly shed all shame and literally dive into one of their carefully orchestrated gourmet displays, motoring in with a mouth as wide as Moby Dick, disgracing myself in front of various Notting Hill glams and their accompanying Russian oligarch sugar-pappas.
But this time I exercised restraint.