The girl chews her gum for a moment and looks at me, taking in the fluffy pink coat I bought for my big move (if I’m going to be a London creative, I thought I should wear something that suits my new job), along with my denim pinafore, blue tights and my trusty silver Doc Marten boots. When I got off the train from Bournemouth earlier I felt quirky and artistic, but now under her supercilious stare I think perhaps I look like a kids’ TV presenter.

‘Forty-seven pounds,’ she says. ‘And five pounds extra if you want our gift-wrapping service.’

Ouch. That’s a week’s worth of my new food budget. I put the flowers back in the stylish metal bucket. I think Becky would understand.

‘I like your coat,’ she says, as I start to slink off. I turn, surprised, and smile a thank you.

‘It’s from eBay,’ I tell her, patting my fluffy arm.

‘Cool. It’s really nice.’ The girl lowers her voice, conspiratorially. ‘I couldn’t afford the flowers either, if it helps. There’s a stall a couple of minutes away on Noel Street – he always has decent flowers.’

She waves her hand briefly in the air, but then another customer appears and she turns to them, greeting them with a cheerful smile.

‘Thanks,’ I say, in her general direction, but she’s not listening.

So I take my phone out. My sense of direction is absolutely hopeless, and I still can’t work out how people find their way around London. I’ve worked out bits of it, but I can’t seem to join them up. It takes me three tries, but I make it to Noel Street in the end. There I find a round-faced man wearing a Santa hat, singing along to Christmas songs from a Bluetooth speaker. His stall is piled high with fruit and veg, and – phew – surrounding it is a rainbow array of flowers, which look to my uneducated eye just as nice as the ones from round the corner at Liberty. Well, almost as nice. A bit gaudy maybe, but I can’t afford to be fussy on my new London wages.

Five minutes later I’m back on Oxford Street looking at the Christmas lights with a bunch of (considerably cheaper) red roses, their cellophane wrapping crinkling in my arms. The lights – strung from one side of the street to the other – sparkle against the sky, which ten minutes ago had been the usual English winter grey, but now has shifted to an ominous bruised purple. I’m trying to figure out if it’s easier to jump on a bus or get the tube to Notting Hill to meet Becky and my new housemates. I’m standing on a street corner peering at Google Maps again when the first hailstones hit me on the head. And – ow – they really sting.