Happiness is a life below zero

As a reward for making Christmas dinner for 24 satisfied customers I arranged to meet a friend for “breakfast in Piccadilly”, a euphemism for “going saling”, itself a coy phrase for hitting the sales. Still, for the look of the thing we went into our favourite cafe where she had kippers and chicken soup for her cold and I had boiled eggs, which came in a two-headed egg cup. Coffees were drunk. My friend wore a shirt with many lavish silk ruffles that darted and sprang about as she ate. I wore a kilt and a short-sleeved jumper, Bunty scholarship-girl style. Our breakfast was taken at breakneck speed. Toast crumbs and eggshell flew through the air. I felt as though I was in one of those flicker books. We were out of that door almost before we had come in. There was work to be done.

In Piccadilly a lot of people seemed to be wearing fur coats that went right down to the ground. I told my friend that on a recent trip to Naples the weather mutinied unexpectedly and I found myself so distressed by the cold that I put my gloves on my feet. The woolly ring and index fingers, flapping out of my shoes as I walked, flashed triumphant Vs at the cold. The children wouldn’t speak to me. “Mum!!!!!”

Why, I asked myself, would you prefer to wear gloves on your feet rather than boots or sensible shoes or trousers? You tell me, was all I could reply. The truth is I don’t own any of those things.

Life, below zero, was suddenly simple. There was just one thing that had to be achieved and that was not letting the cold make you miserable. I remembered my father saying you should never let external matters like the weather or how much money you have affect you in any way. Seeing my gloves on my feet, in a pizzeria, in museums, in the street, I kept bursting into laughter. My feet boasted more personality than I had ever thought possible. They were practically Al Jolson! Life had narrowed, things were simpler. Happiness meant not freezing solid and I was happy.

Self-sabotage

Back in Bond Street, in a dark and padded changing room, I tried on a wine-coloured lace dress with short sleeves and a square neck, which was very flattering. I sometimes take issue with flattering clothes, that is clothes that smooth and narrow. I don’t accept the message the world beams at women 24 hours a day that the less of us there is, the better. The dress was reduced by 40 per cent and seemed to bring about a 40 per cent reduction in me too. My friend and two salespeople stood chatting outside the fitting room about how well the dress suited me and I grew increasingly uncomfortable. To buy a dress because it is very flattering, in that moment, seemed crass, insulting, almost self-sabotage.

“I am here, you know,” I said as they discussed me, as though I had heard them saying bad things about me behind my back.

“We know you are there,” they all said. “We can see you.”

I put my skirt and jersey back on. Much better. My friend tried on a black fur hood in which she looked like a Belle de Jour -era Catherine Deneuve, dressed as the grim reaper. I couldn’t resist telling her a joke.

“So I was going to visit my friend Marjorie, and being a little on the late side, I decided to take a short-cut through the graveyard but it was getting dark and I wasn’t completely sure of the way. Suddenly I saw this fellow dressed in flowing black robes and he was wearing a sort of black cowl hood and his face was as white as anything. He was holding a funny wooden stick with a blade on it. ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I am going to see my friend Marjorie and I know she lives at the end on the left and I’m pretty sure there’s a gate somewhere along here but I can’t quite make it out because . . .’

‘I am Death’ the figure in black said. ‘I am death.’

‘HELLO,’ I shouted, ‘I AM GOING TO VISIT MARJORIE AND I . . .’”

My friend and the chic Italian shop assistants looked at me, speechless.

It was time to go. Later that night my friend left a message for me. “I really hope you go back and get that dress. I think you think it was frivolous in some way but it wasn’t at all. It actually had a lot of sorrow in it.”

I played the message back again.

I looked down at my ungloved feet and thought, as I often do, how complicated life is. Happy new year!

—Financial Times