Weird dark dreams punctured by the unfamiliar silvery shiver of wind chimes, dancing frantically in the high winds. Leave Tufnell Park to be blown up to Highgate for breakfast. Caffe Nero. (Where I inherit the trashy bits of the Sunday Times from a man who will not deign to read a supplement. Hooray.) Not a patch on the very first breakfast I ever had in Highgate, years ago at The Raj - a rickety, mismatched cafe and tea room that used to exist above a second hand shop on the High Street. It's been shut for years, but a ghost remains in the old teapot sign that still hangs from the wall outside. The owner was fat, theatrical and bearded; his cat, black and snaggle-toothed; his food - questionable. We went there for the spectacle - the outrage when the cat licked Nutella out of the jar; the impromptu poetry, the sheer Uncle Monty-ishness of it all.
An old friend, and hours of rambling across the Heath. Low sun, dogs and the well-heeled of Hampstead. We obviously look like we know where we're going - three separate sets of people ask us for directions. The Spaniards. Kenwood. Parliament Hill. We are bold but approximate. Vague but convincing. (I hope we didn't mislead anyone...) The wind has whipped the last of the leaves off the trees - skeleton branches herald winter. I drive home via Golders Green, through a video game of obstacles. Double-parked SUVs; car doors opening suddenly; darkly hooded teenagers loping across the road, phone-focused and oblivious; dazzling high-spec headlamps on full-beam.
Sunday night on the sofa. Red wine. Door shut, curtains drawn.
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