There is a joyfully illicit feeling, reminiscent of, say, sneaking out of school, in going for a long, leisurely lunch in the middle of the day. I don’t do it often, but once a month my husband and I meet at a new, vibey restaurant and have a date that feels like the ones we had when we first met.
It’s something we started at the beginning of the year, prompted by the best Christmas present I think he has given me: a little envelope containing a dozen notelets on which he’d written: “The 12 dates of Christmas”. It represented the 12 lunch bookings that we were going to take this year at places in London we’ve wanted to try, from Mountain to Umu to
