With only days to go before I left London, I had packed my considerable wardrobe of dresses and general gorgeousness into many, many boxes – enough to fill half a container. To be fair I did no packing myself. Some lovely South African boys arrived fortuitously on my doorstep and did all the packing for me. They also packed up my kitchen, bathroom and lounge. But mostly my wardrobe.
Then I had no home left and had to seek refuge on my last days — first with my friend Gilly in Muswell Hill, just up the road. That was lovely and I managed to sell my car while I was there (a much loved black Mini, since you ask). I then spent a few days with my cousin in Wimbledon which was also lovely and relaxing, although I managed to leave my black cord riding jacket there. And then I moved out to the country to stay for two days with my friend Philippa in Oxfordshire, just a hop skip and jump from outlet shopping mecca, Bicester Village.
But before I left London, I had to do one last shopping trip with my cousin, of course. We headed for Diane von Furstenberg naturally. We whirled around the store, picking out, trying on and generally having a fabulous time. I eventually settled on a wonderful black dress with lace top and full volume skirt. I added in the perfect pencil skirt, a blouse of the brightest cobalt blue, and a candle. I love her candles. And the sweet lady in the store was incredibly helpful and appropriately fawning. Lovely.
However, when I saw the bag of goodies sitting on the counter as my credit card was processed, I was gripped by a strange shortness of breath and a tightness in my chest. It suddenly hit me. How was I going to get this home, with all my stuff already shipped, Temperley and Jimmy Coo at Bicester Village shopping still to do and a full suitcase lying, groaning, on the floor of my cousin’s house? I squeaked in fear.
The sweet lady in the store was very clever and she said to me, “we can ship this to Cape Town for you if you like.” Ahhh, I could breathe again. I asked how much it would cost and she told me that it would be £25 and I was delighted. I had spent just over £900 so it was a pretty good deal all round I thought. She even suggested she wait three days before sending it to make sure I was landed safely and had a day or two to settle in before having to collect my goods. All was well with my world.
It was a few days later, sitting at the Mugg and Bean in Cavendish Square on my first full day back in town that I got a call from Malcolm at DHL. He was phoning to say that they had my package and he just needed to check something with me for customs. He assumed that there was an error on the way bill as it said £900 for a skirt, dress and a candle. Did it really mean £90 by any chance?
“No, sorry, £900 is correct,” I foolishly replied. “Oh he said, then that will be R8500 for import duties. Do you want to settle in person at our office or would you like to send a cheque?”
To be continued...
A photo aside: this was the last photo I took in the UK. It was on the road to Philippa's house in Oxfordshire, on an unusually sunny day.