I cannot speak for Boris Johnson’s politics, for he can barely speak for them himself, but his taste in restaurants in excellent. According to people that follow his romantic entanglements – for I follow none but my own – he dined in Rules of Covent Garden on Valentine’s Day with a woman whose name escapes me. But she looked like that healthy sort of upper-class – or fake upper class – girl who could, at a witch’s nod, be turned into a set of bowls; that is, athletic, and always laughing at something – but most probably nothing.
Ah, Rules! My own best restaurant! The supper club of my unmarried years – but I have never been hip – in which I sat with a female friend, sucking cow bones until all the meat was gone. It lives in its dingy – but pleasingly dingy – lane, which is very close to the river.
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