Quite a lot to type up. The trouble is, whenever I start to go into any amount of depth, it often takes me so long that I don’t even finish the diary entry. I have to remind myself that it’s better to write little entries, than none.

Yesterday – to the New Piccadilly Cafe for the last time. I bring Claudia Andrei and she takes my photo in this now doomed vintage setting, taking in the decor, formica tables and the horseshoe menu that has remained in place since the 50s. I shake hands with Lorenzo and the other staff. Goodbye, Piccadilly.

In the London Library earlier that afternoon. Quite crowded, so I have to share a table opposite an intense young man in glasses. I half-mumble, half-whisper something in the manner of ‘is this seat free?’ and he gestures back that it probably is. Though I sense he’s doing so begrudgingly.

After a few minutes I look up from my book, and note he’s staring directly at me.

Another quarter of an hour or so, and I dare myself to look up. And yes, he’s still staring right at me.

The problem with being stared at – and I speak with some experience – is that one never really knows the cause. Does he stare at me because he recognises me? Or because he thinks I look like someone who should be recognised? Or because I look unusual? Or because he finds me attractive? Or is there something on my face – a white smear of rushed toothpaste around my lips? How do you tell one type of stare from another?

I should add that I am wearing a little make-up. But what’s modern life if a gentleman can’t wear a discreet dab of Touche Eclat in The London Library?

In the cafe afterwards, Claudia says, ‘You’ve got a tidemark of foundation on your chin.’

***

Monday evening: soiree in the flat upstairs hosted by Liz & Kahlil, who are moving out after seven years, to live on a boat somewhere in Kent. Other neighbours past and present are there, including Hugh and Zoe. Zoe brings some South African Jewish biscuits she’s just baked.

I’m finding conversation a little difficult as my right eardrum is entirely blocked up, and my left isn’t great either. I can just about hear others okay, but when I speak, my voice sounds like it’s underwater.

This is my fault entirely. I’d been finding external noises more distracting than usual lately, whether it’s hedge-trimming in the street outside in Highgate, or readers stomping about between the desks in the British or London Libraries. So I’ve started using earplugs; the foam kind you insert. Best brand appears to be Hearos Ultimate Comfort, as available from the counter at the drum shop in Denmark Street. If it’s good enough for drummers, it’s surely good enough for me. The Hearos do the trick perfectly, but after using and extracting a pair, I note with disgust that they are absolutely coated in earwax.

So I do what you’re now not supposed to do – shove Cotton Buds (or in my case, rolled-up bits of tissue) inside my ears in an attempt to clean them out. And yes, I make things worse, pushing all the wax together at the other end. This effectively renders me hard of hearing in one ear, and completely deaf in the other. A cautionary tale of wanting silence too much.

I know what has to be done next, because I have made the same stupid mistake before. I book an appointment with my local NHS nurse to have my ears syringed. But first, she chides me, I must spend five or six days in Earwax Purgatory, putting olive oil in them twice a day. This softens the wax up, so it can then be properly syringed.

And as I squeeze a pipette’s worth of Extra Virgin into my auditory orifices, I think of Hamlet’s father.

***

At the Neighbours’ Soiree, talk turns to Northern Rock, the mortgage company whose financial woes are currently dominating the headlines. There’s people queuing up outside high street branches to get their money out, like that scene in It’s A Wonderful Life. Or indeed, Mary Poppins. The government have said ‘No need to panic.’ Which of course, is the quickest way to make anyone panic.

Apparently it’s to do with a credit butterfly flapping its wings in the US, producing a fiscal tidal wave for this particular company in the UK. Or is it the domino effect? Maybe it’s butterflies flapping their wings near some dominoes. I may know nothing about banking, but I do know it’s a bad idea to invite butterflies to an exhibition of standing dominoes. Butterflies will only give you butterflies.

Anyway, I’d never even heard of Northern Rock before this week. I thought it meant Oasis.