I confided my longing to attend a weekend house party at Blandings Castle (and, furthermore, that I would have to be one of those 1920s young ladies who cross-dress, because male evening dress would suit me better). Slem pointed out that it might be better to stay with Bertie Wooster's Aunt Dahlia because then you would be fed by Anatole the French chef.
The play had all the wit and one-liners you expect from Noel Coward, and I enjoyed it very much. My one complaint is that a kitten was mentioned in Act I yet failed to make an appearance in Act III, violating Chekhov's rule.
In the evening I met up with atommickbrane for a nose around Clapham. Almost immediately we found a shop selling big balls of acrylic for £1 and a branch of Infinity Motorcycles, which pleased each of us. Then we went to a pub that served three flavours of Kriek, where I had a chorizo and olive pie served up by a man in a Weakerthans T-shirt. I may have found my spiritual home.