Out of its usual context, away from Oxford Street’s giant department stores and burly black cabs, this double-decker looks huge. And red! So red. And glossy. And iconic. I run my hand over the engine bonnet—goodness, these things are solid. “Classic Routemaster 1956,” Gracie puffs with pride. “Feel free to step on board!” The downstairs interior has the authentic itchy-fuzzy seat coverings, but the driver’s cab has been opened out so Gracie can interact with us along the way, as opposed to being sealed off in her own cube. Seatbelts have been added in the passenger area, and apparently there are a few more tweaks upstairs. “Pamela, why don’t you lead the way?” I hear a squeal and clatter before I’m halfway up the curved staircase. “What is it?” I call ahead. “Oh Mum! I can’t believe it!” As my gopher head pops up, I see the entire upstairs level has been kitted out with a chintzy-fresh, Cath Kidston-style kitchen—there’s a baby-pink oven and fridge, an immaculate white preparation area lined with mixers and bowls and assorted lacy cake stands.
