The countdown
to my seventh decade began last Tuesday, when my dear friends
Loraine and Kerrianne took me for drinks and dinner in Bath.
I have a checkered
history with the city, having lived there first for 11 years and another year
when I rented a house there in 2017. It’s close to my mother in Bristol, and I
have some close friends there, among whom I now count Loraine and Kerrianne,
who are two of the most kind-spirited, generous, big-hearted and thoroughly
wonderful people I have ever met. Loraine (who is an MBE) used to be the city’s
mayor; how I wish we had managed to touch base back then when the only social
life I knew was the local pub quiz (and I’m still arguing over who invented the
rhyming couplet).
Next stop was Cardiff and my dear
friends Liz and Ronw, who treated me to a stupendous night of tapas and wine at
Curado Bar. I regard their entire family as my own; their four girls are
beautiful, clever and extraordinary young women. Our greatest adventure was
when we accidentally became embroiled with the Mafia in Spain, when we
innocently thought these sweet guys genuinely wanted to set up a TV station. In
all fairness, it was already in existence; we just didn’t know, as we went in
day after day, pitching programmes (leaving Liz and Ronw’s poor children parked
in McDonald’s), that it was a front for money laundering. There is still an
international warrant out for the arrest of the ringleaders.
On Thursday, my friends Janie and
Mike took me lunch in Café Citta, a family-run restaurant that is never less
than a joy, and the same is true of my friends. They were nearby neighbours,
who, during my 10 years living in Llandaff until 2016, pretty much ran my life
when I was away from home. Always entertaining company and very funny, they are
breathtakingly kind and supportive.
And so to Saturday: my party at
the Dean Street branch of Soho House, where I had booked an upstairs room that
was a perfect mix of drawing room and bar. I had the lights dimmed (but not too
dark); Fifties and Sixties music playing (but not too loud); and wine flowing .
. . and flowing. I decided to forego food, as I reckoned adults know how to eat
and would be more grateful for free wine rather than one glass and two canapés
of something they’d be looking for a bin to spit them into.
Though I say it myself, it was an
incredible party. I have never felt so loved, and I have never felt so loving.
The age range was astonishing: from 18 to 80, and it was an eclectic mix. I
didn’t want to have a “works” do, and having people there who have been in my
life for so long – my first university friend, Helen, from 40 years ago, for
example – gave a cohesion to the evening that made me feel cocooned in a bubble
of gratitude and humility.
For all the hardships along the way – and none of us
is immune – I felt truly blessed to have come to a point, after six decades,
surrounded by the people I saw before me: family, friends, work colleagues past
and present, my dentist and hairdresser (yes, really!).
When I made my speech (has to be
done), I felt overwhelmed by life – so much so, that I didn’t even recognise
one of my oldest friends, Tina (twice!), who I saw just three weeks ago. I
greeted one couple at the door like long lost relatives, only to suddenly clock
their confusion when they realised they were at the wrong party.
Everyone genuinely had a great
time, and I was particularly touched by the young people in their early twenties,
who said it was the best party they had ever been to. I wish my mum, who has
been incapacitated following an accident a year ago, could have been there;
also, my dad, who died not long after my 30th. But my brother Nigel
and his wife Kim were there and it was wonderful to spend time with them –
something we rarely get to do, given the distance between us. It’s something I
vow to change in the future.
Inevitably, it’s been a week of
reflection – on family, friends, the past, the future – and, as I’m now in the
three day countdown to the day itself (November 5th), I’ve been
thinking about how I marked each decade.
Ten: a bit sad because, being born on November 5th, I didn't really understand why I was being given explosives rather than toys as presents.
Twenty: no idea. I was so miserable and
depressed I didn’t think I’d see another year, let alone 10.
Thirty: Chalk and
Cheese restaurant, run by my friends Liz and Ray, in Chalk Farm. I made
everyone play “The Shoe Game”, which nobody understands even to this day. I
remember throwing a shoe at one of my friends who was chatting up my sort-of
boyfriend though.
Forty: Soho House in Greek Street. I have always said it was
the happiest day of my life, which, until then, it was.
Fifty: a dinner in a
London restaurant, a party in Cardiff, and also one in Paris, where the last
guest, unconscious on the stairs, was carried out by les pompiers, yelling at
me in French that this wasn’t their job.
Sixty (almost): Soho House, 76 Dean Street – the happiest day of my life. Love and thanks to everyone who was
there and made it so.
So now I find myself in New York,
where my cousin Debbie (daughter of my father’s favourite brother Ray, neither sadly no longer with us), is flying in with her friends on Monday; also, my
friends Mary and Liam (Thursday) and Howard (Friday). I’ve planned a dinner, a
boat trip and, on 10th, a celebration at Mr Biggs which, as anyone
who reads my posts knows, is my second home in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen.
I have no idea what the next
phase of my life holds; for better or worse, none of us do. But while we have
love and breath, life’s atrocities can never defeat us.
That’s not something I
always say, but heck: it’s my party and I’ll smile if I want to.
See yer all in 10 years.
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