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Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond
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Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Party Pooper
I haven't quite said "no", but have given a definite "probably not", to a party-invite for this weekend. It's being hosted out in the country by an occasional mate of mine, and his rather famous pop-star wife. We're hardly bosom-buddies, so it was nice of them to ask. Previous bashes at their place have been a hoot, and, whenever things started to flag, me and his lovely missus would just go out into the garden and discuss the rhododendrons, about which she knows quite a bit. Ten years, even five years ago, I'd've jumped, wide-eyed and open-legged, at the opportunity of going showbiz and mwah-mwah-mwahing with the famous, the fondly-remembered, and the what-was-your-name-again? And now? Well, the whole celebrity thing just doesn't do it for me. In fact, it's too much like hard work. I'd much rather stay at home with a bottle of Merlot, and, should I crave sincerity and affection, a video of Whatever Happened To Baby Jane? That's loads more fun than working a room of never-to-be-met-again luvvies, or the awkwardness of pretending not to know who Super-Famous Person is by starting the small talk with "So, exactly what is it you do for a living?" Besides, there's a bloggers' meeting in central London this weekend, which I might just try and make. For scandal, intrigue and glamour, I reckon that one's going to be hard to beat… |
