Cavendish Square is a strange place. A place of clichés. At a table near me sit two young women – obviously varsity friends from the snatches of conversation drifting across to me – discussing Stellenbosch and reminiscing over their wine. They get so caught up in their catch-up that they completely forget to look at the menu and send the waiter away to give them more time to decide. I find myself wondering if they’re wives. The place is full of women in designer outfits, some with small children. Ladies who lunch. Sometimes several generations all at once. In between them, the occasional guy dressed for work: a geek here, a business suit there.