I don’t know about you but one of my pet hates is walking into a party or an event alone. I need a wing man or woman to help me settler my feathers before surveying the room and spotting friends. There is nothing worse than barreling up to people in an intense conversation and bobbing around like a demented penguin hoping to be noticed and introduced. Pet hate even more is events such as a Victoria & Albert fashion exhibit opening when there’s a red carpet for the VIPs and another entrance for the proles.
If there is one thing that is guaranteed to bring out the Joan Crawford in me it is a date being late to escort you to a party. It happened this evening. I loitered outside the V&A for half an hour waiting for a fashion designer who had invited me to the gig. I always employ the half an hour rule. If someone is rude enough to keep you waiting for half an hour without a text or phone call then I hoof it in high dudgeon.
There’s really no excuse – and that includes being on the tube – in not alerting your guest for the evening that you are going to be left looking a right Charlie outside a party. It presupposes that the other person’s time is more precious and they are worth waiting for. Well, have I got news for you. I wouldn’t wait for more than half an hour to meet The Queen – Anna Wintour – let alone a moderately successful fashion designer.
Unless my coven are in attendance, I find most parties a lottery. It can be a hoot if you bump into an old friend unexpectedly but it can equally be social Siberia not knowing a soul and chasing the cute cater waiters for another glass of fizz to pluck up the courage to introduce yourself to somebody. I agree with La Farmer that you can’t cite shyness after the age of sixteen. It isn’t shyness in my case. It is a pathological hatred of attending parties alone and exposed.
I am so much more of a dinner party kind of boy. I love an Awards dinner or some event conjured up to have a ball in the name of a charity that you couldn’t give two hoots about. My favourite are seated dinners when you have to engage with your left and your right and can holler across the table if both are a bore.
My worst parties are when I know one of the enemy will be in attendance. The answer of course is not to attend should someone like the Wicked Witch of the West End be imminent. It will only end in tears and torn clothing. When did parties become such a chore and people so bad-mannered?
I blame social media and telecommunications for the lack of manners. People seem to think that if it is a public event they can turn-up when they like rather than at the designated hour and their dates can wait. Well. we can’t as it happens. I would rather miss a party than break my half an hour rule. I think people need to know if their behaviour is off. My time is rather precious too. Then again, I am of the old school that says if you want to be on time be early. It’s a habit I learned from my parentals. It is always best to be the first and bed yourself down at a party rather than breeze-in after the host.
Today was the first sunny day in London since 1815. It was gorgeous and nowhere has light like London when there is a cloudless sky. The red pillboxes gleam as do the busses. The trees look greener and the flowers in Hyde Park were simply a symphony of gorgeousness. We all feel better for a Vitamin D shot. But truth to tell my mind was on Menorca. If it is this good in England think how much more glorious it would be in your Balearics.
Technically, I could scoot off to Menorca tomorrow. I am incredibly tempted to get an Air B&B in Mahon and spend the week bussing to Son Bou beach daily for my skinny dip on the nudist beach and my marathon novel reading on that glorious stretch of white sand. I live for sea water. In fact I feel most at home under salt water which must be a consequence of Scorpio being a water sign.
I have said it before and I will say it again. Water is nature’s tranquilliser: to drink, to swim in and to listen to. I love the crashing of the waves on Son Bou beach. It is where I feel most connected to life on this glorious globe of ours. I am in great need of some tranquility at the moment and one more stand-up for a London party will send me screaming for Easy Jet toot sweet.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to live on the Mediterranean time scale when minutes and hours don’t matter and the only appointment you have is with the sea round about mid-morning before a late boozy lunch and an afternoon of kippage on the beach before sundowner cocktails.
After ‘the troubles’ I really did think it would be delightful to leave London way behind me and go and live a simpler life on Menorca. Perhaps the simple life would bore me but perhaps not. A change of scene is good for the soul. A change of routine might be a life-saver. So here’s to beaches and the Mediterranean Sea. It is all I need to nourish the soul and sooth the body. Does anyone have Easy Jet’s number? Until next time…