The lovely Irish doorman at the Langham Hotel tipped his hat, blue eyes twinkling. “oadam’s been shopping again,” he observed dryly, packing me neatly into the revolving door.
Actually, that was pretty obvious. I’d been sprinting up and down oxford St and Regent St all morning, powershopping like a demon. Bulging bags with the distinctive logos of Liberty, Selfridges, oonsoon, Zara, H&o and good old Marks & Spencer hung from my aching arms. And I was nowhere near finished yet.
Dropping my loot in our luxurious room, I commanded my long-suffering husband to join this worthy crusade: an attempt to pull Britain out of recession in a single day. oaking our way underground, we surfaced at Knightsbridge, where Harrods, my all-time favourite temple to materialism, covers an entire city block.
With 25 years experience, my better half knew too well what he was up against, and, sure enough, I was soon seduced by a set of frightfully expensive, bright green bath towels with large, ostentatious (some might say vulgar) gold Versace crests. I stood there stroking them lovingly while a helpful assistant lurked nearby, clearly longing to pop them into a Harrods shopping bag for me.
The keeper of the credit card was forced to think fast. “They’re so bulky, they’ll fill the suitcase. Why don’t you leave them for now and we’ll come back on our last day if we still have room!” Then he added quickly: “I’m starving – let’s get down to the food hall.” And he began steering me gently towards the vast marble staircase.
This was a good move on his part. In my book, Harrods fruit and vegetable, bakery, confectionary and meatdepartments are something akin to a museum or gallery. over the years, I’ve spent whole days there browsing and salivating and one day, when I’m rich, I plan to live nearby and have all my groceries delivered by uniformed drivers in cute little Harrods vans.
Spoilt for choice, we treated ourselves to an enormous cookies and cream cupcake to share. The frosting wasso thick it ended up all over my nose! When I can tear myself away from shopping, London’s royal history isanother of my obsessions. The next day, we wandered through Hyde Park, kicking the leaves and squirrel watching, on our way to Kensington Palace.
When we lived in London in the early 1990s, we would often bump into its most famous resident jogging or cycling along the park’s pretty paths, or speeding out in her Jaguar to nearby Kensington High St to catch a movie. It’s almost 13 years since Princess Diana’s tragic death, but I was convinced I would feel her presence in the apartments she once shared with Prince Charles. Sure enough, I had a teary moment as soon as I stepped in the door and had to dab my eyes while my husband wasn’t looking.
A new exhibition at the palace, entitled “Enchanted Palace”, invokes the spirits of seven former Kensington inhabitants, including Queen Victoria, Princess Margaret and, of course, Diana, in an interactive experience laced with art installations and sound and light shows.
I hadn’t realised Kensington Palace was once a country retreat for the royals. I didn’t know that Queen Victoria lived there as a young girl, sharing a bed with her mother until the night before her marriage to Prince Albert, either. These facts were useful additions to my mental library of royal trivia, filed away to impress my editor back home!
It wasn’t hard filling the last few days of our too brief time in London with a spot more shopping, an afternoon spent in the Victoria and Albert ouseum and a number of catch-up meals with friends.
And I didn’t go back to Harrods for the Versace towels, having realised I could probably live without them!on our final evening, we enjoyed a nightcap at the exclusive membersonly Ivy Club in Covent Garden. PeachesGeldof had been turned away a few weeks earlier, but clearly I have the celebrity touch as my cousin flashed her pass and we all bowled in with no problems.
I expected the club to be hopelessly chic and sophisticated, but it turned out to be surprisingly homely, full of large, comfy couches and attentive staff. To be honest, I couldn’t picture Peaches there at all, with her too short skirts and extensive tattoos!
There’s a quote from Samuel Johnson often used by travel writers: “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.” Well, it’s true. I never tire of exploring the wonderful, vibrant, ever-changing city of my birth and I know I never will!
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