Dear friends,
Apologies for the long silence. I’ve been gallivanting in
South America and job hunting, but it’s still no excuse for starting a blog and
then abandoning it and its follower (thanks Babs) without the slightest regard. Well you’ll be pleased to know I’m back now, my laptop planted firmly on my, um, lap, and some stories to tell, if you’ll allow me.
I was in Notting Hill yesterday for a friend’s baby shower
that was meant to take place at the very exclusive Electric Brasserie (not my
usual Saturday haunt, believe me), but as I exited the tube station, slightly late and
flustered as usual, I received a text from the Mum-to-be advising us that the
venue was on fire and that our friend who had organised the party was standing
outside it holding a bunch of balloons. Thinking this was either a bad joke or
a case of truly awful timing (I’ve never been to the Electric and my one - and probably
only - chance of pretending I was a trendy Notting Hill-ite for the afternoon had
just been scuppered by a careless chef), I carried on regardless, squeezing my
way past the crowds of maddening tourists in Portobello Market, swearing and
muttering under my breath in true Londoner fashion. I could already see the
smoke billowing in the distance and so any hope of the text from my friend
being a bad joke was extinguished with every step. I found her and the rest of
our group standing on a corner near the Electric, looking bewildered. We were
venue-less and clueless, and to top it off three of us (not me I hasten to add)
were heavily pregnant – one with twins – so probably quite likely to go into
early labour if it all got a bit too stressful.
We discussed the venue
alternatives and possible plan B’s amid the chaos of fire engine sirens and
crowds of curious onlookers until our ringleader got her mobile out and ordered us two cabs. We just needed to get the
hell out of there. The taxis finally arrived and we all piled in, rather
inelegantly, and were about to leave when my friend was suddenly banging on the window next to me, screaming, “Guys! It’s Mark Ronson! MARK RONSON!! You have to get out
for a photo! GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!”
So we all piled back out, the Mum-to-be protesting “Do I have to get out? Who’s Mark Ronson anyway?” and before we knew it we found ourselves face to face with a rather bemused looking Mr. Ronson as we giggled like a group of teenage star struck girls.
There was some old geezer in a scruffy jumper and jeans standing next
to him who we presumed was his mate or uncle or something. They had clearly been
expelled from their hidey hole in the Electric (which was now blazing steadily about 45 metres behind us) and were scuttling away from the
light like cockroaches. My friend instinctively turned to the old bloke and
asked him to take a photo of all of us, upon which Ronson drawled, “Are you
sure you don’t want John Taylor of Duran Duran in your photo as well?” and there
was an awkward pause of the sort you only get when you don’t recognise an aging
celebrity who has become a nobody and now dresses like a geography teacher. We
all cried, “Oh yes! Of course! Sorry! Thank you so much!” and we jammed our
cameras hastily into the hands of the unsuspecting cab driver, and for one short,
glorious moment, we all felt part of the glamorous world of Notting Hill
celebrity.
And then Mark Ronson and John Taylor left, skulking off down
the road back to their painfully trendy lives, and we all piled back into our
cabs and headed for The Waterway pub near Little Venice, our emergency Plan B
venue of choice, where we stuffed our faces with burgers and drank lots of Prosecco.
It was a baby shower to remember. God bless you, London.
