Two hours and several kilograms of purchases later, Christa finally drags me into a rather swanky looking tea room on Bond Street.
"Time for that chat," she says devilishly, telling her name to the lady at the door. She has made a reservation, typical Christa.
I follow her to a quiet corner and it is reminding me of my posh time at breakfast.
"Oh gosh you have that look in your eyes again, the look you had at the hotel on Joel's birthday," Christa says with a sigh. I gingerly sit down on one of the leather armchairs around the table and I shrug at her.
"I've just spent a whole week on a boat. Condensation on the windows, waking up damp every morning, stargazing while anchored at sea. A small kettle. Mugs. Takeaway pizza. One evening I even cooked pasta with sauce from a jar. For a prin
