It can get a bit claustrophobic. Myself I confess to bouts of agoraphobia—a fear of open spaces, that is—each time I step out. One morning I was hailed three times in 10 minutes in Kensington, the last by a man I failed to recognise because of his beard. Surely he didn't have one before? "It's my London disguise," he explained. My own disguise, unhealthy and unaffordable, would be much simpler: lie on a couch eating fresh strawberries and cream and watching Wimbledon all day long.
