I don’t get out much. Which is remarkable given my so called scintillating career. It’s just not me. Since Rachael taught me to enter “liquor, liquor” as first and last name for the nearest wine store, the advent of Seamless Web and filtered water on tap, I just think in is the new out (kind of like belly buttons where in will never go out of fashion).
So to be invited to a dinner party of 10 people at Cindy Gallop’s simply stunning living space was both exciting and terrifying.
Naturally having spent the day on the couch with stomach cramps (LONG story) I pulled it together at 6 and started the prep. The one thing the late and great Peter Estall taught me (he’s the man responsible for the very best light entertainment at the BBC in the 80’s and beyond – and a mentor to me) was to never cancel on a woman, and least of all on a meal. So having reassured Cindy that come hell or heart-attack I’d be there, I dipped into yet another bath and prepped.
Look, let’s face it, I’m shit on my own. I can’t choose a THING to wear, I need back-up. I nearly called Ratchat, Ben, Mom even Tim Gunn, but I couldn’t be seen to fail; so I literally spent 40 minutes trying on a variety of pants, shirts, ties and even Henley style shorts (what WAS I thinking) and finally ended up looking just the wrong side of interesting.
Maybe like a graduate entertainment lawyer. Although someone did as me if I was a writer at dinner (NOT the look, but impressive none the less).
The journey was quite something. Straight to the local liquor store to buy the biggest bottle of Grey Goose (made with real geese) and into a taxi, via a pot hole in the road the depth of Wookey Hole. My pants (that’s trousers) were soaked, well just on the one leg. What can you do? You do British, and ignore it.
To Cindy’s to the loo to freshen up and work out how to dry my leg and then to the seating area.
I’m not going to go on about her place – Google it or go to www.cindygallop.com – anyway it was designed by Bacchus and the god of Soft-Porn. It’s a total entertainment, living and loving space. She is also, truly, the ultimate Martini maker – delivered in some almost witch-craft looking flask to crisp Gucci glasses. The conversation is warm enough to dry my leg and soon we take to dinner.
William, as ever (well it’s the second time I’ve seen it but I’m assured he does this far too often) has mostly catered, and as we sup from a wine called ‘Bitch’ the stories unfold over a memorable Cottage/Shepherds pie (I always confuse the two).
What made tonight captivating to me was there was none of that ‘where do you work, what do you do and long chats about the vagueries of marketing. Instead we talked about people, fun, love and past-times and the whole thing was totally cathartic.
Long may it reign – and I hope I’ve done enough to make some new friends as every single one around the table was nothing other than impressive, passionate and captivating.
Since I mixed lamb, beef and veal in the pie and topped it with duchess potatoes I think either “shepherds”, “cottage” or “modest country estate on 46 acres” pie would all be appropriate descriptions.