And a walk down Brick Lane with a good friend one warm July evening sealed the deal. I felt a misfit amongst twenty somethings and their ironing board stomachs and kicker-length dresses. Oh the curry was good. The curry was wonderful. A secret little in-the-know curry house on a side street off the main artery. Prawn Pathia (no 52.). Tarka Dhal (no 83, as a side). Tiger Beer (cool, straight from the fridge). For the first time, I didn't feel part of a giant London jigsaw. All the pieces were in place. Snug. Watertight. I was an outsider looking in. I'm a suburban creature now, Petunias and Lobelia hanging from their garden pots.