nasty lasty , love, surely?’ Robbo protested. ‘I spilt most of that one.’
‘Exactly,’ said Liz, ‘which might be God’s way of telling you you’ve had enough. Any more and I won’t let you drive, and you know how you hate me changing gear on Churchill.’
Churchill was Robbo’s big and beloved old Wolseley, a vehicle as comfortable, as shambling, as worn-looking and as terminally unhip as he was, and driving it was (as Robbo was the first to admit) the only thing that Robbo did better than his beloved wife.
‘Yes, can’t have that.’ Robbo got up. ‘I shall have to drink your health at home.’
‘Come on, Rob!’ Jimmy protested. ‘You can’t go yet, we’re celebrating your wedding anniversary.’
‘And the reason there’s an anniversary to celebrate, mate,’ Robbo replied, ‘is that I have discovered the secret of a successful marriage. Do what your bloody wife tells you! The bill’s on our account. Don’t order any malts older than your last girlfriend, Rupert.’
‘Lovely!’ Rupert beamed. ‘An eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich.’
Rupert had been a mature student and was already thirty-three.
‘Honestly, Rupert,’ David scolded. ‘Have you ever dated a girl who’s made it to her twenties?’
‘Well, I certainly try not to.’
‘But what do you find to talk about?’ David enquired.
‘Talk? We don’t fucking talk .’
‘Night, all,’ Robbo said, leaning over to kiss the ladies goodbye. Inevitably his glasses and fountain pen slipped out of his top pocket and into a half-finished massala.
‘Don’t put them back in your pocket, Robbo!’ Lizzie shrieked. ‘Let me wipe them properly.’
But it was too late. Robbo had already scooped up his glasses and having given them a cursory wipe had put them back in his jacket, thus depositing bright-red curry sauce all over it.
‘ God , Robbo, you are such a klutz!’ Lizzie said as if scolding a ten-year-old. ‘Don’t worry, I shall iron the grease out over brown paper.’
‘Actually I wasn’t worried,’ Robbo said, turning and winking at the lads as Lizzie headed for the door, then adding, ‘God! Look behind you, Henry! It’s Neil Kinnock!’
Henry fell for it like a sack of spuds. Robbo had grabbed his pint of Kingfisher and sunk half of it before Henry realized he’d been had.
‘Got to grab it while I can, Henry,’ Robson said. ‘When your lot get into power you’ll probably ban beer.’
Lovely, lovely things
Lizzie was truly a pioneer of the lovely, lovely thing . Without Lizzie and a few others like her, the populations of Notting Hill, Kensington, Primrose Hill and many other not quite so salubrious but rapidly ‘improving’ areas of London in the late nineties would have had nothing to give each other for Christmas.
For what do you get for people who have everything they could possibly need or want, plus a shitload of stuff they don’t need and often don’t even want?
‘You get them something lovely , of course,’ said Lizzie.
It didn’t really matter to Lizzie what that thing actually was, only that it should be beautifully presented . That was the real issue.
To previous generations of purveyors of luxury items a biscuit had still been essentially a biscuit. That was the main item on the agenda. Of course it needed a nicely designed box, but what really mattered was what was inside the box.
‘That,’ Lizzie assured her young design team, ‘is bollocks. What really and truly matters is the box .’
To her it was instinctive, a truth instilled in her by a good (and very pretty) fairy at her birth. Presentation was everything.
Lizzie adored a box.
She gloried in choosing the thick, creamy card from which it was constructed. Comparing the inks and dyes with which it would be coloured. Studying the weave on the ribbon with which its lid would be secured. Considering the dimensions of the cellophane window through which the scrummy cookies within could be glimpsed. All three of them.
Lizzie
‘Exactly,’ said Liz, ‘which might be God’s way of telling you you’ve had enough. Any more and I won’t let you drive, and you know how you hate me changing gear on Churchill.’
Churchill was Robbo’s big and beloved old Wolseley, a vehicle as comfortable, as shambling, as worn-looking and as terminally unhip as he was, and driving it was (as Robbo was the first to admit) the only thing that Robbo did better than his beloved wife.
‘Yes, can’t have that.’ Robbo got up. ‘I shall have to drink your health at home.’
‘Come on, Rob!’ Jimmy protested. ‘You can’t go yet, we’re celebrating your wedding anniversary.’
‘And the reason there’s an anniversary to celebrate, mate,’ Robbo replied, ‘is that I have discovered the secret of a successful marriage. Do what your bloody wife tells you! The bill’s on our account. Don’t order any malts older than your last girlfriend, Rupert.’
‘Lovely!’ Rupert beamed. ‘An eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich.’
Rupert had been a mature student and was already thirty-three.
‘Honestly, Rupert,’ David scolded. ‘Have you ever dated a girl who’s made it to her twenties?’
‘Well, I certainly try not to.’
‘But what do you find to talk about?’ David enquired.
‘Talk? We don’t fucking talk .’
‘Night, all,’ Robbo said, leaning over to kiss the ladies goodbye. Inevitably his glasses and fountain pen slipped out of his top pocket and into a half-finished massala.
‘Don’t put them back in your pocket, Robbo!’ Lizzie shrieked. ‘Let me wipe them properly.’
But it was too late. Robbo had already scooped up his glasses and having given them a cursory wipe had put them back in his jacket, thus depositing bright-red curry sauce all over it.
‘ God , Robbo, you are such a klutz!’ Lizzie said as if scolding a ten-year-old. ‘Don’t worry, I shall iron the grease out over brown paper.’
‘Actually I wasn’t worried,’ Robbo said, turning and winking at the lads as Lizzie headed for the door, then adding, ‘God! Look behind you, Henry! It’s Neil Kinnock!’
Henry fell for it like a sack of spuds. Robbo had grabbed his pint of Kingfisher and sunk half of it before Henry realized he’d been had.
‘Got to grab it while I can, Henry,’ Robson said. ‘When your lot get into power you’ll probably ban beer.’
Lovely, lovely things
Lizzie was truly a pioneer of the lovely, lovely thing . Without Lizzie and a few others like her, the populations of Notting Hill, Kensington, Primrose Hill and many other not quite so salubrious but rapidly ‘improving’ areas of London in the late nineties would have had nothing to give each other for Christmas.
For what do you get for people who have everything they could possibly need or want, plus a shitload of stuff they don’t need and often don’t even want?
‘You get them something lovely , of course,’ said Lizzie.
It didn’t really matter to Lizzie what that thing actually was, only that it should be beautifully presented . That was the real issue.
To previous generations of purveyors of luxury items a biscuit had still been essentially a biscuit. That was the main item on the agenda. Of course it needed a nicely designed box, but what really mattered was what was inside the box.
‘That,’ Lizzie assured her young design team, ‘is bollocks. What really and truly matters is the box .’
To her it was instinctive, a truth instilled in her by a good (and very pretty) fairy at her birth. Presentation was everything.
Lizzie adored a box.
She gloried in choosing the thick, creamy card from which it was constructed. Comparing the inks and dyes with which it would be coloured. Studying the weave on the ribbon with which its lid would be secured. Considering the dimensions of the cellophane window through which the scrummy cookies within could be glimpsed. All three of them.
Lizzie
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