“Do you,” asked my girlfriend, “have something against the sun? Was it rude to you at a party or something?”
I could see her point. As soon as the weather turned for the better, I insisted we ate in the bookish gloom of Andrew Edmunds’s basement. Soon after, while the rest of London weighed up how little to wear and made for the parks, I ignored the terraces and reserved a table in the midnight dining room of Sale e Pepe, for heavyweight portions of old-school Italian.
