Last night I came face to face with a pair of Victoria Beckham’s old white jeans. To be fair, it wasn’t just me and the jeans. It was more of a charity auction do where her trousers were up for grabs. I had a good look at them. But then came a slight panicky moment when my arm got stuck in the leg and I feared they might have to call security to release me.
It has been that sort of week, really. A lot crammed into a smallish space. On Monday I dashed from the Policy Exchange Christmas party to the re-re-re-relaunch of Duran Duran. In the seats behind us were Bob Geldof and Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, which safely gets my Weird Pairing of the Week award. It was groupie heaven, crowned with a kiss from Simon Le Bon. My cheek is now on eBay.
The night after, I found myself dining barefoot with the editor of the Independent for an interview with GQ magazine. The restaurant was Japanese so culturally I suppose it made sense, though all those feet were still a little unnerving. ‘Barefoot dining’, it strikes me, could be one of those slightly strangled recreations people list in weighty tomes, just after their gentleman’s clubs. I seem to be getting a lot of stick for not putting my own hobbies in Who’s Who. Believe me, I tried. First I put the things I genuinely spend my time doing, and I came across as the most boring woman in the world. Then I decided to think up something alliterative, witty or curious. And it sounded painful (cf. ‘barefoot dining’ above). Then I went for something with an air of mystery, and it sounded like I had neither hobbies nor, quite frankly, friends.
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