encounter in a kitchen shop

All right, all right, he wasn't brandishing a sword at the time. Boy are people picky. Just look at that face.

But yes, it truly happened! And like most things in life, when I least expected it. OK, deep breath, I'll tell you the whole story. I had decided to run into the Marco Polo Cafe in the Marylebone High Street for a spot of hummous for lunch, not having much in the way of an appetite lately, and had just finished and was meandering toward school pickup when I passed the offices of BBC London. Lots of weedy looking chaps and chicks, smoking, clutching their own ribcages in the wind, drinking coffee. Doubtless our nation's youthful cultural elite. I perused them to see if anyone looked like anyone. No one did. Just on the other side of the BBC is the lovely if horrendously overpriced kitchen supply shop Divertimenti, which I used to frequent in its old location in the Fulham Road, and I gazed into the shop windows, thinking, "See, Matthew Macfadyen was photographed in some undisclosed 'Marylebone' location just the other week, having lunch. Why doesn't that ever happen to me, seeing him wandering about? What's the point in having a crush if you never ever see him?" And there he was.

Truly! In the shop! It was but the work of a moment to realise, hey, I'm a cook, I might need something in the way of carrot peelers or Dutch ovens, so I darted in and... then what? I thought of Dorothy L. Sayers' referring to tailing a suspect, and finally cornering him. "The glass is firmly clapped over the moth. Now the only question that remains is how to extract the moth without injury." Indeed. What to do? He was deep in perusal of some extravagant Magimix machines, so I perused them too. Then he moved on to coffee makers, and that wasn't too hard, there were so many. By the time he moved to the vintage cookery books behind glass, however, I had to get out of the way. I found myself with a really topnotch grater in my hand and my wallet in the other, so I queued up at the till, and he walked right behind me. Actually brushed again the sleeve of my Barbour jacket (I'd say I'll never wash it again, but then I never have washed it). He is, as I always suspected, just the build of John, big and tall and comforting. Rimless glasses, messy hair, jeans and a sweatshirt, with what could have been a script, rolled up in his hand. The hand bearing the wedding ring, mind you, so I sighed and bought my grater. Then he walked by and turned for just an instant, and looked right at me! Not with any great interest, you know. But still.

So I called John, so far away in Iowa, and he can be forgiven for being less than entranced. But he tried, for my sake. I floated on up to school and got Fifi (and a beautiful bouquet of flowers from my dear friend Becky who I really missed so much last week), and we made our way in a taxi back down the High Street toward the stable. "Would you believe I saw him?" I raved, "And he could still be around here, anywhere!" And there he was, on the corner, carrying now a Daunt Bookshop bag in his hand, the kind you get if you spend more than 25 pounds. "It's Matthew!" Avery shrieked. But taxis wait for no obsessed fans, so we were on our way. What fun.

How exciting. I cannot imagine that today will bring any such adventures, the schedule calling for nothing more than a visit to the Royal Academy and the New White Cube Gallery with my friend Susan. But my eyes will be peeled, for sure.