Mrs Y-B on the other hand was selecting some Bluebird olive oil, but faced with a choice of five, couldn't remember which one to buy. So she got out her mobile phone, rang her husband, and standing there in the middle of the shop, said, `Darling, which olive oil do we buy - Tuscan or Molese?'
I have done it at lunchtime twice this week. I have dressed up: high heels, glossy lips, mirrored shades, and gone to a pre-arranged rendezvous to indulge, talk dirty and share creamy desserts. In short, I have been a LWL - a Lady Who Lunches.

Tuesday's lunch was at Sir Terence Conran's new Bluebird Cafe on the King's Road with a friend I hadn't seen for a long time. I was escaping from my PC, and she was escaping from "Nappy Valley". The Bluebird was just the sort of distraction we both needed: outside seating, light main courses, naughty puddings, and sexy waiters.

I arrived early and outside bumped into an ex-colleague, who we all used to suspect was on the game after hours. So, there she was with her Fendi sunglasses, Chanel handbag, Valentino dress, Ferragamo shoes, just back from LA and off to lunch with a "client". Definitely accumulating her labels horizontally I decided.

Anyway, at the Bluebird, an attentive young Italian waiter saw to my every need (that I could mention), and I sat there with my Hildon Spring waiting for Mrs Y-B to arrive. You have to order water if you are sitting on your own, or you look like an old soak - this is LWL etiquette. Mrs Y-B and I had many months of catching up to do; my impending divorce was numero uno topic on the agenda. I have noticed that all my married friends, instead of saying "how awful to be divorced in your twenties, sweetie", say "God, I'm so jealous. Lucky you", then get out their address books and reel through all the single men they fancy, deriving vicarious pleasure from their match-making. Mrs Y-B produced her Psion Organiser, and said, "Well you know that X has always held a torch for you - he'll definitely want to take you for dinner." Oh God.

After lunch, we went to the Bluebird shop (a la Harvey Nichols fifth floor). I suppose it's what people who live in Chelsea think is a supermarket. As I'm now anti-domesticity, I don't buy food anymore - just shoes and shower gel. Mrs Y-B on the other hand was selecting some Bluebird olive oil, but faced with a choice of five, couldn't remember which one to buy. So she got out her mobile phone, rang her husband, and standing there in the middle of the shop, said, "Darling, which olive oil do we buy - Tuscan or Molese?" A couple walked past us, whispered to each other, then laughed. "I don't normally do this sort of thing," I nearly said. I wanted to get up on the table with the olive oil bottles, and say "look, I'm not a Lady Who Lunches, I'm a woman who works. Honest!" Well, until my next lunch date on Friday.

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