In which I breakfast at the Wolseley

My friend sends me an email. ‘We should have breakfast tomorrow.’ I politely ignore the email. I wake up properly when Kris (the coolest of my builders) starts singing ‘She’s got electric boobs…Be Be Be Benny and the Jets.’ I think of things I can break in my room to keep the builders here forever.

I check my emails again. I have 27 new emails on this breakfast thread. My girlfriends have electronically meandered all over London, through cafe and restaurant, and decided upon the Wolseley. I like the Wolseley. I like my friends. I am quietly thinking of ways to drop my new breakfasting-at-the-Wolseley habits into conversation. ‘How are you?’ ‘I’m good thanks. I always find the Wolseley breakfast really sets one up for the day.’ I realise why I don’t talk to people who breakfast at the Wolseley. I get one final email. ‘OK, great. Let’s meet there at 7.20am.’ I wonder why my friends hate me. I go to discuss this with Kris the builder, who tells me that we have run out of toilet paper. I realise that it might not be so normal to be a ‘we’ with your builder. I should probably go to breakfast.

I cycle to Oxford Circus. This takes 15mins. I then spend 15mins cycling up and down three  one-way streets between Piccadilly and Oxford Circus. I pass Mahiki so many times I start to believe I should just breakfast there. I arrive, late, and am nearly run over by taxis as I lock my bike outside the Wolseley. I imagine people think I’m some sort of Zuckerberg type, and their looks of incredulity are a response to this. I blunder into the Wolseley.

It is important in these types of establishments to look as if one belongs. I achieve this by slinging my coat onto the floor, opening the menu and saying loudly. ‘How on EARTH can they charge £11 for a bagel. This is ridiculous.’ My friends say nothing. I realise I must act quickly to preserve my impossibly-young-impossibly-wealthy-disguise. ‘I mean, obviously I can afford it.’ I look for a waiter. ‘I would like a large- yes, the more expensive one, glass of apple juice. I will be ordering more later.’ I can see he is impressed with my nochalant ordering skills. He quietly picks up my coat. I begin to look at the menu, and wonder if I can steal toilet paper from their loos.