I’d just moved in. I hate an empty flat. But i had the kitchen stocked pretty quickly. Zoe and I were in that space of delirium only tough decisions and vacant echoey rooms can provide. We had both worked from home, a day of sitting bony bums on birch floors, waiting for a chair delivery that wouldn’t happen for another week.

I’d impulse bought 2 tickets to Tucci’s Fortnum & Mason meet and greet and no offence to Zoe but she wasn’t my first candidate for company; being less of a fan of Tucci and more of a fan of chaos, good stories, and bookending. She so sweetly accompanied a warm flustered little chef, carrying two pre-loved copies of the book in a room of empty handed tourists. Tourists to Tucci that is.

I had prepared with patience two gifts to bring with me.

Then I was on my way.

Picture this sweethearts:

We walk up the wide staircase to a large room, that had been carefully filled with oddities, ready for the rush of Zola’s most gourmand Paradise customers. The queue spiralled up and amidst his new GREENPAN line, and we were miles away from the starlet.

I begin to heat and sizzle like a little clove of garlic confit. Flustered and bubbly, but golden. Zoe holds my coat. I hold my books. I take the necessary pictures with the panjandrum paraphernalia, as we approach a kitchen: prop-styled and waiting for its Architectural Digest interview. I’m looking for the limes to make the obvious Johnson joke. There are lemons and oranges, appropriately.

We hear jazz piano and a large media-trained laugh. I consider the Dean Martin show. So does he, I think. We’re getting two complimentary copies! He will be signing all four of my books! [maths: 2 + 2 = 4. two pre-owned + two gifted that evening = four ]. The staff need names. I answer their question: Me. Me. Me… and mum.

As we approach the edge of the kitchen, a mere ante-chamber to the real deal, we see a bald head, crowning through the glass archway. Zoe said he looked like a baked bean, glowing and kind, and she noted that he should have seemed like more of an asshole.

He wore Bllluuuuuuuueee Velveeeeet. That’s what I really couldn’t keep my eyes off. His suit. His smart, personably fuzzy suit. Dark, classy, warm, such basic descriptors I know, but he was so exactly the definition of these words. Nothing more or less.

I’m growing increasingly jittery and hot as I approach Tucci, but something is about to give me an ego boost just large enough to propel me on my way.

The couple getting their book signed just before us are awkward and jittery, but happy to meet a celebrity. One of the pair deliberates for a time about what to say to him, what to ask, what to leave the interaction on… but what a poor decision she makes.

“What’s your favourite food?” she asks, springing her hind legs back into position.

Amateurs! I’m so in. What I have to say is soooo much more unique and special. He looks confused, answers their question the only way one can:

“What’s my favourite food? Well, that’s simply impossible to answer”

They rush away, and we are ushered forwards.

His eyes dot about and land on my pile of four yellow books. He smirks, and beams.