Veeraswamy in central London is the oddest restaurant I’ve ever come across – so odd that it’s more an experience than an Indian restaurant. Tucked around a corner in a passageway just off Regent Street, it has no showy front, and never – as far as I know – advertises. You have to know that it’s there. It’s more like a private club than a restaurant. This week, when we went, the door – I won’t say front door, it’s even more discreet than that – was opened with a flourish for us by a doorman as tall as a tree and dressed as a Hungarian hussar. You learn to expect the unexpected as you step into the surreal world that is Veeraswamy. Continue reading
IT’S lucky that I don’t suffer from a heart condition, because if I did, the weekly supermarket shop would most likely finish me off before much longer.
The experience of navigating from entrance doors to checkout invariably sends my blood pressure rising, forces my jaws to clench and pushes my already-dim view of humanity into a headlong plunge.
In the time it takes to work my way from the fruit and flowers through to the sorbets, I find myself increasingly these days muttering “Am I invisible?” under my breath, like an intolerant old grouch, lamenting the general decline of the entire world. Continue reading
WE HAVE just spent the summer with the house in turmoil as we had plasterers and decorators in, working on what felt like every space in our home. Continue reading
I HAVE just spent a week without a phone – after mine, which had been misbehaving for a long time, finally stopped working. Continue reading