On the other hand, I think as I walk away, that’s quite a lot of new points on my Club Card. The equivalent to . . . fifty pence! And now I’ll be able to make loads of delicious, exotic curries and save all that wasted takeaway money. Really, I’ve got to think of this book as an investment.

I don’t want to boast, but apart from that one purchase, I do incredibly well over the next couple of days. The only things I buy are a really nice chrome flask to take coffee into the office. (And some coffee beans and an electric grinder.) And some flowers and champagne for Suze’s birthday.

But I’m allowed to get those, because, as David E. Barton says, you must treasure your friends. He says the simple act of breaking bread with friends is one of the oldest, most essential parts of human life. “Do not stop giving your friends gifts,” he says. “They need not be extravagant—use your creativity and try making them yourself.”

So I’ve bought Suze a half bottle of champagne instead of a whole one—and instead of buying expensive croissants from the patisserie, I’m going to make them out of that special dough you get in tubes.

In the evening we’re going out to Terrazza for supper with Suze’s cousins Fenella and Tarquin—and, to be honest, it might be quite an expensive evening. But that’s OK, because it counts as breaking bread with friends. (Except the bread at Terrazza is sun-dried tomato focaccia and costs £4.50 a basket.)

Fenella and Tarquin arrive at six o’clock, and as soon as she sees them, Suze starts squealing with excitement. I stay in my bedroom and finish my makeup, putting off the moment of having to go out and say hello. I’m not that keen on Fenella and Tarquin. In fact, to be honest with you, I think they’re a bit weird. For a start, they look weird. They’re both very skinny, but in a pale, bony way, and have the same slightly protruding teeth. Fenella does make a bit of an effort with clothes and makeup, and doesn’t look too bad. But Tarquin, frankly, looks just like a stoat. Or a weasel. Some bony little creature, anyway. They do strange things, too. They ride around on a tandem and wear matching jumpers knitted by their old nanny and have this family language which no one else can understand. Like they call sandwiches “witchies.” And a drink is a “titchy” (except if it’s water, which is “Ho”). Take it from me, it gets irritating after a while.

But Suze loves them. She spent all her childhood summers with them in Scotland and she just can’t see that they’re a bit strange. The worst thing is, she starts talking about witchies and titchies when she’s with them.

Still, there’s nothing I can do about it—they’re here now. I finish brushing on my mascara and stand up, looking at my reflection. I’m pretty pleased with what I see. I’m wearing a really simple black top and black trousers—and, tied loosely round my neck, my gorgeous, gorgeous Denny and George scarf. God, that was a good buy. It looks fantastic.