If my diet of fat and salt permits, I'd like to grow old in Marylebone (give or take the odd king's ransom). I'll schlep my best cat's arse face for a potter round Daunt Books, The Ginger Pig and La Fromagerie, then head back to my portered mansion block with its handy lift. The bliss.
I'll still be mourning the loss of Odin's, of course, with its Hockneys and Procktors. But here's Fischer's to ease the pain, entirely the kind of establishment to welcome old ladies every bit as warmly as it welcomes Gordon Ramsay (who's sitting just along from us). Despite being spanking new, it looks like a grand 1920s Viennese cafe: it'll make ancient me feel right at home. Those inlays! That panelling! Those oils of the old country! There's marquetry and mirrors, imposing clocks and shiny tiles; a boar's head glares beadily. Oh, the lugubrious lavishness of it all.
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