busker

Bagels, Beans ... and Victoria's Secret

What a relief not be jetting gentlemanly into that good night but departing troublesome and immature as ever.

One never knows how one'll react 'til the crunch comes.

I thought perhaps that packing and saying goodbye to so many genuinely decent and mature pals might have a sobering melancholy effect and a calm descend: come clean, beg forgiveness. Find God.

Apparently not.

Having waffled on about the Forget-Me-Not-Fairy plate, I decided that I *would* get it to Julie, via good old Bagels and Beans.

Looking round for suitable packing and drab anonymous container, I spotted the Victoria's Secret bag from that day in Silverdale when I must have handed my bellissima more money than I realized, because back she came, laden with caskets and creels - and a VS sachet.

The perfect holder for the Fairy plate.

Every red-blooded man should once in his life sidle into a discreet café and leave some intriguing sachet for a woman on whose marriage certificate his name nowhere appears.

Likewise, every honest lady should run the gauntlet of entering somewhere public and ask sans giveaway blush if anything has been left for her.

Of course, a real cad would say nothing and simply let madame ask for what she assumes will be an anonymous brown package and be handed that tell-tale luminous pink bag, to titters and admiring glances all round.

But I respect J too much and Ted is wiry and fit, and checking in with a black eye and numerous abrasions would cause me to be taken to one side for interrogation and unseemly probings.

I was fond of that bag. It provided me an eye-opener and glances both admiring and resentful.

Having arrived on time - as is her wont - The Spitfire begged a further 20 minutes to spend even *more* of doting papa's donation. (I had *indeed* over-bribed la petite). Which left me to stroll around the Mall, at first self-conscious but with increasing boldness as the ego-trip dawned on me.