Suddenly my steps have more spring in them; my energy has miraculously returned. Following the bleeping sound of the cash register, I hurry round the corner to the shop entrance and pause on the threshold, telling myself not to raise my hopes, not to be disappointed if it’s just bookmarks and tea towels.

But it’s not. It’s bloody fantastic! Why isn’t this place better known? There’s a whole range of gorgeous jewelry, and loads of really interesting books on art, and there’s all this amazing pottery, and greeting cards, and . . .

Oh. But I’m not supposed to be buying anything today, am I? Damn.

This is awful. What’s the point of discovering a new shop and then not being able to buy anything in it? It’s not fair. Everyone else is buying stuff, everyone else is having fun. For a while I hover disconsolately beside a display of mugs, watching as an Australian woman buys a pile of books on sculpture. She’s chatting away to the sales assistant, and suddenly I hear her say something about Christmas. And then I have a flash of pure genius.

Christmas shopping! I can do all my Christmas shopping here! I know March is a bit early, but why not be organized? And then when Christmas arrives I won’t have to go near the horrible Christmas crowds. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of doing this before. And it’s not breaking the rules, because I’d have to buy Christmas presents sometime, wouldn’t I? All I’m doing is shifting the buying process forward a bit. It makes perfect sense.

And so, about an hour later, I emerge happily with two carrier bags. I’ve bought a photograph album covered in William Morris print, an old-fashioned wooden jigsaw puzzle, a book of fashion photographs, and a fantastic ceramic teapot. God, I love Christmas shopping. I’m not sure what I’ll give to who—but the point is, these are all timeless and unique items that would enhance any home. (Or at least the ceramic teapot is, because that’s what it said on the little leaflet.) So I reckon I’ve done really well.

In fact, this morning has been a great success. As I emerge from the museum, I feel incredibly content and uplifted. It just shows the effect that a morning of pure culture has on the soul. From now on, I decide, I’m going to spend every Saturday morning at a museum.

When I get back home, the second post is on the doormat and there’s a square envelope addressed to me in writing I don’t recognize. I rip it open as I lug my carrier bags to my room—and then stop in surprise. It’s a card from Luke Brandon. How did he get my home address?