A few minutes later the beam in the revolving door picked me up, registered me as having left the building, notified the computer, and awaited the next person. I walked on air up Thirty-Eighth Street. Life is a cunning creature; it keeps you down in the dumps for days on end, then, just when you’ve had enough of the whole thing, suddenly, for no reason at all, it pats you on the head, like a guilty owner who thinks he’s scolded his dog too much, and gives you a biscuit. Right now, the girl on the sixty-fourth floor wasn’t merely a biscuit: she was Oysters Rockefeller, a haunch of venison, a huge great chunk of raspberry cream pudding, a mountain of ripe camembert, a ’69 Montrachet, a ’62 Latour, a ’67 Sauternes, a Remy Martin and a Romeo and Juliet corona. Two years ago, she had looked pretty damn good; now she was a stunner.

Unluckily for me, luckily for Gelignite, I came out of my thoughts at the very moment I happened to be walking past Tiffany’s, the world’s most famous jewellery corner store – and best avoided for breakfast … unless you happen to be into eating cut glass. Assailed by a potent mixture of guilt and seasonal cheer, I stepped off the New York sidewalk, through the doorway and onto the soft carpet. The shop was busy, but there was a general hush that needed only the clacking of a ball on a slowly spinning roulette wheel to set it off perfectly.

Walking among the glass cabinets, under a high ceiling, I had the feeling that it would make no difference whether I had one hundred pounds, one thousand pounds, one hundred thousand pounds, or even one million pounds. I, or anyone, could spend a whole day in here, writing out cheques non-stop for any sums, however large, and still not make even a tiny dent in the stock of just one department.

There were more rare animal skins on the backs of the women shoppers than you could ever see at a hundred museums, and there were so many cashmere and vicuña coats with velvet collars wrapped around the men, one might have thought someone was issuing them at the doorway as a standard uniform. The battery of lights everywhere wasn’t necessary; there was more than enough light already provided by the reflections of the shining white, capped teeth of the clientele bouncing off the glittering gems and precious metals.

I bought Gelignite a silver bracelet. My American Express card did nicely, but could have done better, the expression on the courteous assistant’s face told me. I left Tiffany’s and took a cab to the City Hall, where I asked to take a look at the architectural plans of 101 Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza.