It’s 12.05 on a weekday afternoon and unless you’re a toddler, it’s a tad early for lunch. Today, however, I’ve been hypnotised by pinstripes. Shoulder pads and champagne. The power lunch. The dream.
For here, in this small section of glossy, corporate London, such a thing still exists, frozen in time along with the word ‘madam’ — which is how I’m greeted in a well-rehearsed purr as I step into Sweetings, the 134-year-old fish restaurant that has seen more consultants, politicians and banking executives than Rupert Murdoch’s legal team.
