Mrs Dalloway

To Waitrose, Finchley Road. We had to buy smoked salmon, darling, for a grand occasion chez nous this weekend, and only Waitrose would do.

Shops seem to be closing down all along Finchley Road - those big emptyish shops that sell slightly outre furniture - and the sleet flishing past the windows today added pathos to the miserable scene. It used to be such a grand parade of shops, I thought, though how any place without a car park could survive on the sidelines of the A41, I couldn't establish. Ah, it turns out they can't.

Waitrose was pululating with life, but then they have a subterranean car park so they're alright, Jack. Upstairs on the shop floor the clientele were fascinating. Mr Q eavesdropped like crazy as Hampstead mums compared notes on skiing hols. There was a preponderance of women, of course, it being the working day, and about half of them wore fur hats. Extraordinary people! Clearly hibernation has been a hard habit to shake off in the wilds of Hampstead.

Pie exulted in his seat in the cockpit of the trolley and kept lunging to left and right and casting flirtatious spells over the other shoppers, who were duly enchanted. I tried, meanwhile, to rein in my rampant desire to buy everything: why is it that Lent sharpens the sense for luxury? I would never normally want, in all seriousness, to buy eclairs.

Downstairs to the car, to find that a gold Rolls Royce had parked beside it. An ancient creature like one of those exiled princesses from Muriel Spark's New York phase was making her way into it at the passenger side. She had big hair, a shrunken body, gold everywhere, big gold-encrusted sunglasses, tiny gold shoes. I felt sorry for her; to be so glamourous is laughable these days, and I couldn't help being reminded of the gilded Brooke Astor's sorry end.