In 1982 my mothers hair was Elvis Presley jet. Her skin pale Irish incandescent. She wore black. Black. Black. And sometimes leopard. Her mouth Paloma Picasso red. Her perfume Chloe. It was like walking around with a mysterious movie star and this was the world we inhabited. My mother. The Elizabeth Taylor Of The East End. London had bite. It had glamour. People had their own distinct style and ways of behaving and speaking. Everything was interesting. London was sexy then.

Guy Bourdains ladies remind me of my mother in the 1970s. But that’s another story.