The Affair texts: "How awful! I'm home alone."
Irritatingly, it takes me nearly two hours from door to shag. This is all London's fault. Why, when you're heading somewhere important (toy shops, interesting meetings, and the affair), does London just grind to a halt? Trains stop running, cabs vanish from the street, and bus drivers look the other way.
But how pleasant it is, to be hurrying through leafy South London on an Autumn afternoon with only one thing on your mind.
Discovery: the Affair is worried about limescale.