It has been a spring of party madness in London and New York. I was lucky enough to have several birthday parties thrown for me in both cities, including Evgeny Lebedev’s glamorous soirée at which Nigel Farage announced that he was no longer being served at any pub in Brussels, which may explain why he’s cut down on the drinking.
There was also the ultra-glam Met Ball in New York: Dame Anna Wintour mingling with a half-naked Lady Gaga; divine Bette Midler in top-to-toe black sequins and a top hat, dancing with the talented Julianne Moore (wearing green sequins) and Cher in ripped jeans and an anorak. Not to be too bitchy (oh, go on!), but I thought Katy Perry dressed as a hamburger was a touch de trop, even for the party’s theme of ‘camp’.
I’m not an Aquarian, but I seem to have attracted a few liquid dramas recently. There was the major flood in our flat two years ago, which forced us to move out for a year; then, at the Met Ball after-party, a drunk gentleman fell on to our drinks table, smashing two glasses of wine (luckily white) and spilling their contents over my gigantic feathered crinoline. It necessitated a swift exit for me, trailing wet feathers and shards of glass. And at the Old Vic summer party on Sunday, while I was sitting at Sally Greene’s table, a large iPad in the middle of the table, which listed the silent auction prizes, fell on to a full bottle of white wine (again!), tipping it all over me, completely drenching my dress and shoes. Napkins were hurriedly produced and assistants scurried about helping this soggy mess to mop up in the ladies’ room.
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