A toast to all the shamans!

Our visit to the Saatchi Gallery had been unexpectedly emotional. An exhibition themed around flowers—automatically romantic, explosive with colour and form, and delightful in historical and scientific ways—yet we left in tears. It wasn’t the grand, meticulously rendered pieces that moved us, but the naive ones: bold lines drawn with more love than finesse, awkward framing, clumsy shapes that spoke more clearly of passion than any level of technical skill ever could.

We stepped out into the crisp, early March sunshine and decided to eat nearby. At Vardo, we found a bar table overlooking a quartet of wealthy septuagenarian women, deep in lively conversation. Just enough distance separated us to eavesdrop without being obvious. Impossible not to get drawn in—tales of woe about last-minute flight changes to Florida, which of course disrupted their schedule to France, then North Africa, then China. Yes, a vast expense, but of course it had to be done.

Our order arrived. As I sliced into my stem broccoli, nettle-macadamia ‘cheese’, mint pesto, rocket, and chilli pizza, the restaurant filled with women in tight cashmere and Lululemon leggings, men in traditional blue shirts and chinos, all vying for an ever-diminishing number of tables.

“You’re going to want to hear this one,” declared what seemed to be the leader of the group, adjusting her sunglasses and surveying her friends to ensure she had their full attention.

“So, you know I love my African art. I have this marvellous African mask hanging in the hall, which I absolutely adore.”

Judging by the blank nods around the table, it was clear these women only ever met in public. No one had the faintest idea how her house was decorated.

“We’d been trying to sell our London house—so many prospective buyers, all very positive, but no one was biting. Anyway, did you know my husband has a friend who’s a shaman?”

This prompted ripples of surprise, laughter, and one murmured agreement that, yes, that’s what they would have considered.

“He comes over and immediately senses bad spirits. Says the house must be cleansed. He lights some sage—you know sage?”

“Sage?” one of them echoed. “Like sage and onion?”

“Yes, dried leaves tied in a bundle. He lights them, walks through every room, wafting this strong-smelling smoke. The house isn’t even that big, but he spent four hours chanting and smudging. Then he demanded the mask be removed. Said the spirits had entered through it. That was a bloody shame—I loved that mask. But do you know, almost the next day, we had an offer.”

No one looked the least bit surprised, only delighted.

“A toast!” cried the woman in lace to her right. “To all the shamans of the world! Let us be cleansed of bad spirits.”

She raised her glass. The others chimed in.

I signaled for the bill and ordered a coffee, leaning back in my chair, satisfied. A good meal, crisp sunshine, and high-level free entertainment—it didn’t get much better than that.