I am sitting at the bar at El Quijote beneath the Chelsea Hotel, on a high-top stool with my feet dangling. My feet look good because they are in new red and black leather cut-out boots with pencil straps around the calves. I have been looking at my feet all day in window panes since I bought the boots in the Salvation Army store on East 23rd Street. Every time I catch a glimpse, they make me smile. The boots are equal parts foxy and ridiculous. The barman makes drinks . . .

It is a truth universally acknowledged that if, in the first three weeks of moving into your home, you do not unpack the cardboard box full of shoes, then you will become a person who keeps their shoes in a cardboard box. The ability to adapt has ensured the survival of the human race, but it can also get you into some fairly lunatic living patterns. My partner and I bought a tiny table-top ironing board when we moved into a large loft-style apartment with very high . . .