I’m due to dine out with a couple of people who I’m sure don’t want to be named, so let’s call them Bob and Jim, even though their real names are Tobyn and Leaf. I let them choose the restaurant. I do this not because it’s one less thing for me to have to think about, which would be selfish, but because I am a generous-natured, generous person famed for my generous generosity. Ask anyone, apart from those who might actually know me and might hold a grudge for no good reason whatsoever.
Anyway, Bob and Jim, who are Tobyn and Leaf, but in disguise, eventually come back with The Ledbury. I look up The Ledbury and it is in Notting Hill, west London. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘We do have some very nice restaurants here in Crouch End, you know.’ They are sure, they say. Drat. As you know, I hate to leave my small patch of north London.
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