To the Garrick, for a festive feast with my dear ex-husband and offspring. My daughter and I decide to make the pilgrimage from Turnham Green by taxi, owing to a combination of torrential rain, vulnerable blow-dries and high heels. Schoolgirl error: we could have flown to Manchester in roughly the same length of time – and at a fraction of the price. Thank you, Sadiq Khan. What a splendid job you’ve done turning London into a giant car park.
We eventually arrive, half an hour late, dodging the garish rip-off rickshaws blaring headache-inducing yuletide tunes which now infest the West End (again, take a bow, Mr Khan), and enter the wood-panelled sanctuary. Up the back stairs we go – no longer a strict requirement for female guests, but they do have the advantage that they take you via the ladies’ powder room, with its old-fashioned dressing tables and three-way love-seat (rather racy, I’ve always thought, but then you know what these theatrical types are like). Besides, my daughter has never been, so I want her to experience the glorious old-world eccentricity of it all. As a budding feminist and keen student of anthropology, she’s fascinated to witness the inner workings of the patriarchy. As we head for the bar, a flock of florid besuited gentlemen in pink and mint club ties passes obligingly by. I wonder what the collective noun for members of the Garrick should be? A bluster? A harrumph? A claret?
Son and dear ex, not having travelled quite so far, are already ensconced in green leather button-backs. As we cross the threshold in there’s an alarming shout: ‘It’s that Sarah Vine!’ I turn to see Kwasi Kwarteng, sitting with his lovely wife Harriet and a third party who turns out to be their vicar, positively overflowing with festive cheer.
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