By the time I leave the Atelier, it’s so late, well after four, that all the kitchen staff are sitting outside smoking and chatting.  Hmm, I think, not so theatrical and serious now, are we?  Everybody that has worked in kitchens will tell you that  the stainless steel space attracts the craziest of people.  Junkies, down ‘n outs, ex-convicts: it’s the fug of steam, heat and slippery floors that creates a womb-like effect for the workers and finally, a place they can call home.  Working in kitchens is more addictive than any drug. Here, of course, the kitchen staff are also mega-talented, which is a lot more than I can say for some of the places I worked in. The Satanist chef in one St. Julians restaurant was of particularly memorable mettle.

I set off on my holy grail:  getting myself some Mead Cambridge Writing Pads.  This is an obsession I developed over the years and which haunts my every trip out of the country.  Sadly, they are American, and quite rare in Europe.  These notepads have a hard back, which means I can write on them standing up, and fantastically smooth, thick, bright yellow paper. I don’t expect anybody else to understand this, but I did expect the American bookshop, Brantano’s, on the Rue de Rivoli to have restocked since my last visit in January when I basically bought every single one they had.

They hadn’t.  I hunted high and low and groaned at the salesman who obviously thought I had something missing somewhere up there in my brain space, rather than realising the missing bit was on his shelves. Instead, I ended up buying Stephen Pinker’s The Stuff of Thought and a tiny best-selling book on Parisian vintage shops called, very cryptically, Paris Vintage, by Sarah de Haro. [Brantano's has closed]

On the way to Opera, I pass by a huge café, one of those glitz and glamour gold and chandelier-bedecked places which Europe does so well, and notice that there is a 15-person crowd standing in line to get in.

It’s Angelina. Ah, a ping! goes off in my head. That’s the place that Hotel Hotshot told me about before I left.  Actually she insisted that I visit, no matter what, and jump headlong into their hot chocolate, which readers of paris-eating.com describe as ‘phenomenal’. Angelina is at 226, Rue de Rivoli and should be your stop before, during or after a visit to the Louvre.
Yet today the gods were mitigating against me: I had absolutely no intention of waiting in line behind what seemed to be a bunch of Americans, the books and the huge cashmere-filled Gap bag were weighing me down. Not to mention the fact that I had eaten more than enough at the Atelier.

Instead, I headed for the shops, picking up a coupe of Lulu Guiness knuckle dusters (huge rings to the uninitiated) along the way. As soon as I was out of the shelter of the arches, it started to pelt down like crazy. The Gap bag got soaked in ten seconds flat and disintegrated, throwing all the cashmere on the pavement like a petulant child.

Feeling like a bag lady, and laden with wet jumpers (all marked ‘dry clean only’) I entered one of those kinds of extravagant men’s clothing shops that Paris does so well, noticed that their ties cost a minimum of €150 and fluttered my eyelids at the female sales person. ‘Oh!’ she says ‘vaa vas hum va va vum’.  ‘English please?’ I beg, fluttering, or rather blinking, some more.  ‘Would you like a bag?’ she says.

I wanted to kiss her and I wanted to scream ‘Who said Parisians were a snooty, language-nationalistic lot?’ at the same time. Cherie (not her real name, just in case I get her in trouble) folded my drenched jumpers beautifully, putting tissue paper in each one, ignored the water my umbrella had dripped all over her parquet floor. I walked out with a smile and two hopelessly posh carrier bags.

I realised that I was next door to Repetto, and I could not resist.  Repetto are the original ballet shoe producers and still use hand-made techniques to construct their beautiful pumps, jazz shoes and even boots.  Ever since Kate Moss was seen in one of them, they took off in England too.  I tried pair after pair on,  posing in the full-length mirrors and thinking that if TW were here he’d be bored senseless, enjoying my girlyness. I watched a real ballerina getting fitted into their point shoes, mourning the day my mum put academia in front of my prima ballerina potential, and walked out with two pairs.

I stood idiotically in the rain outside, adjusting my woollen hat, laden with bags – albeit this time very chic ones, tied with pink ribbon – and called (and called, and called) a taxi, finally rushing back to the d’Aubusson for a nice, well-deserved, Hermes laden bath.  That night I had a booking at Parisian institiution l’Allard. I wasn’t hungry, but I couldn’t wait.