James tends to race off to the golf course at some ungodly hour, which leaves me free to loll around in bed until lunchtime eating toast, drinking tea and reading trashy novels. Heaven! Then I usually potter round the flat and think about doing some housework before venturing into town and letting my credit cards come out to play. I love drifting round Camden Market, rummaging through the second-hand clothes, delving into treasure chests of bric-a-brac and trying on pairs of enormous chunky boots that make me so tall that I practically require oxygen. Then I’ll buy a hummus pita in the covered market and take a wander down to the canal, looking at all the interesting couples in their ethnic sweaters and funky hats, holding hands and looking so happy. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have my own stall. I’d sell second-hand clothes, I think, rich burgundy silks and dark purple velvets, frothing cream lace and busy paisley prints. I’d have long hair and piercings. I’ve always hankered after some piercings.
