I had a vision of a top suitable to wear with loose, short trousers but that was not a snug crop top. This was a vision of a loose button-down collared shirt, down to the hips, and cinched at the waist by a wide fabric belt. With this vision in mind I went to Covent Garden with my relative, and of course lost heart after the first one, but continued looking. She, pleased at this uncharacteristic interest in clothing, was very sweet and found all sorts of candidates, but nothing really worked. So that was that, but at least I bought socks, a toner and an oil cleanser, taking these essential items off my shopping list.
We then went to Knightsbridge to collect some items she had been asked to bring back. The person who owned the flat, a very wealthy distant relative, was not there but had apparently told the concierge. The man on duty had not been told, and I can’t say I was impressed by the security: he let us into the building, asked us if we knew Mrs S- (we hadn’t mentioned the name ourselves), then took us into the flat to look for the items. These were there on the dining table of course, with a note addressed to us, so it was all well, but if I owned the flat I would not be pleased that the concierge had taken us inside.
Later that night we watched the first episode of a British comedy series called The Trip, in which Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, a pair of comedians, go on road trips. I didn’t enjoy it particularly; it was low key glum British banter, with an undercurrent of mean-spirited aggression that characterises the sort of British comedies I don’t much like. Quite a contrast to, say, End of the Fucking World. It has a big fanbase (on the other hand, so does The Office which for me is unwatchable). We then moved on to Get Shorty but even though I was quite engrossed, the usual tide of sleepiness engulfed me and I only lasted about half an hour.