I’m running in Raleigh. OK, it’s actually Durham, but Raleigh rhymes better. I call my mother. “Why are you out of breath?” she asks suspiciously. “Because I am running,” I say. “No, darling, I can not speak to you whilst you are running. You simply can not do two things at once.” Oh, if only she knew.
Later that afternoon I go to Tula’s tea party. She has chandeliers and tea urns and china cups and champagne, and slightly alarming black loo paper, but she also has the most charming sugar lumps that have been flown in from Canada with iced flowers on the top.
Feeling somewhat punch drunk after a few weeks on the road, I begin to ask guests if they can really trust someone with a British accent. Apparently they do. I also ask if they are a better sales person than their cat. Apparently not, cats win paws down.