ALEXANDRA SHULMAN’S NOTEBOOK: My vision of the future? A glam lunch in high heels! 

Something unusual happened last week. I had two smart lunches. Not five-star, full-on corporate lunches, but not a quick cappuccino-and-scrambled-egg-with- a-girlfriend kind of thing either.

Since March, such experiences have been in short supply. In fact they completely disappeared. So naturally I made the most of these.

Despite the puddles and rain, I put on a pair of white high-heels and a floral skirt. I daubed on some make-up and carried a proper handbag, rather than grabbing a cotton eco tote from the kitchen door handle.

Walking from home to the bus stop, I felt a bit of a freak. I knew I looked like a visitor from The Land That Time Forgot, among the dull sea of trainers, leggings and sweatshirts – and, of course, masks – that have become our national uniform over recent months.

And what a treat these encounters were. Yes, I was jolly lucky to be in ritzy restaurants where perma-tanned money men (even now those tans have been maintained) wave at their colleagues over a glass of chablis – and where the dog water bowls in one were of fine porcelain – but that really wasn’t the point.

The point was that it was out of the norm and I made an effort to raise my own bar. I was meeting people I don’t normally see, whom I wanted to entertain and interest to some extent (no idea if that was successful), and it was exciting to connect with someone out of my own small social bubble. It felt a bit like future reclaimed.

Naturally there have been days in recent months when we have all revelled in putting on a comfy pair of trackies and a T-shirt and not having to get on public transport and schlepp to offices or meetings.

Lunch in a glam restaurant is not like the regular 3pm logistics run-through with the office clipboard Nazi. Yet the whole experience confirmed my view that the shrunken world of Covid-19 is one to be fought against.

Going out and about is vital, and healthy, in so many ways.

I just dread, like so many across the country, learning that the future is about to get put back on hold.

Why cookbooks are just so moreish…

Our never-ending love affair with cookbooks is one of the great mysteries of recent decades.

And it’s not only happening here. Cookbooks top the bestseller charts in France, Italy and America – Germany, curiously, leads with a legal tome on the Equal Treatment Act, which tells us something but I am not sure what.

I’m as culpable as anyone. My kitchen shelves are literally sinking under the weight of Nigel Slater, Diana Henry, Ottolenghi, Nigella and countless others, in varying degrees of grubby use. 

Now Christmas approaches, and with it a new avalanche of cookery manuals which publishers (particularly in this dire year) hope will keep the coffers filled.

But the truth is that nobody actually needs another cookbook. I’ve figured out that pretty well all of them offer a variation on about 20 ingredients in different iterations. We can probably make up most of the recipes ourselves.

But that’s got nothing much to do with it. A new cookbook is like a new dress. They dangle the promise of a new and improved life, which is, of course, why we keep on buying them.

Sunshine can cure (almost) everything

We have been fortunate enough to have a week away in Greece, which convinced me that when it comes to our general state of mind, it’s not the economy, stupid, but the weather that’s the key factor.

In Greece, everyone wore masks, maintained strict social distancing and was concerned about the pandemic. But it was bright and warm, so the restrictions felt hugely less oppressive.

Not good news for us as we head into a dank, dark winter but, clutching at optimistic straws, I am hoping the ill-humour and dissatisfaction with life generated by bleak November weather will be another reason America decides to vote out Trump.

Don’t turn Allegra into a trolley-dolly

Ex-ITV reporter Allegra Stratton is a great choice as the face of Downing Street’s daily TV briefings, though why she would want to be Boris’s ventriloquist doll beats me. 

She’ll have to get used to every item of her appearance being scrutinised in a way a man never would, but I’m sure she has the confidence to carry on dressing as she chooses, rather than turn into some trolley-dolly US TV anchor construct.

Photos last week showed the 39-year-old mother-of-two looking attractive and happy with tousled hair and some ethnic-style earrings. I do hope that when she reaches our screens later this year, she hasn’t had that lovely natural look blow-dried out of her.

We’re all grounded by the dithering duo

Grant Shapps and Matt Hancock are launching a review of how other countries are dealing with airport testing and quarantine, instead of just getting on with it.

We all know how tempting it is to keep certain aspects of our own lives under ‘review’, also known as procrastination. But I rather hoped that on this occasion – with both British Airways and easyJet battling for survival – the Government could skip the review stage and proceed to action. No such luck.

My night in Colditz with Michael Portillo

Claudia Schiffer and Matthew Vaughn’s planning permission victory for a new dog-basket room reminded me of the bad old days when their Grade I listed Tudor home in Suffolk was owned by David Hart, a Thatcher consigliere.

Among the well-connected young crowd he hosted for weekends of extravagant over-indulgence, the house was known as Colditz and Hart’s nickname was Spiv. 

I was invited only once and geared myself up for a Vile Bodies experience of unbridled hedonism, but was somewhat disappointed to discover the only fellow guest was a rather less raffish Michael Portillo and his then wife, and we were all abed (with our own partners) by 11pm.

No, William, celebs won’t save the planet

Prince William’s £50 million Earthshot prize for environmental initiative is intended to have the prestige of a Nobel.

But if it’s meant to be a serious game-changer to help save the planet, it should be serious enough to be judged solely by a panel of worldwide experts in the field, not dumbed down by unqualified celebrities such as Shakira to grab headlines. Bit tragic.