Party time for the summer solstice
The only proper way of taking time off is to go away, but I took time out yesterday to mark the summer solstice with a special lunch, a shopping expedition and one of the best summer parties of the year.
My lunch was with my friend Petroc Trelawny, the BBC music presenter, on the terrace of the Savile Club; my shopping was for suits in Jermyn Street; and the party was with the Times Literary Supplement in Knightsbridge.
Going out for lunch ruins the rest of the day, but I had no theatre opening to attend, so I felt free to enjoy myself. So did Petroc, to a certain extent, as he was due in Broadcasting House by 4pm, so we were only truly bacchanalian in spirit.
Petroc’s recently been presenting the Cardiff Singer of the Year concerts on television, and he thinks that the Russian singer who won was certainly worthy of the prize but perhaps a little too far along her career path to justify it over some of the other unknown contestants.
We usually go shopping for clothes together after these lunches, but I had to make my own way to Jermyn Street and buy a couple of new suits for my son’s forthcoming wedding in Liverpool.
I told Petroc later that I’d bought two very nice worsted grey suits and a blue shirt with white collar and cuffs. “Sounds a bit too deliciously Al Fayed,” he pinged back, “but I’m sure you’ll get away with it somehow.”
I then took an hour or so to peruse the Edinburgh Fringe Festival brochure — I’m planning my first visit to Auld Reekie for three years — and was delighted to see that Denise van Outen is doing a solo show.
The Traverse programme looks great, and I think I may have to make a special effort to see an opera about birdmen (part of the International Festival) on St Kilda, the most westerly of the Scottish islands.
Then on to the TLS shindig, where the theatre community was represented by fellow critics Henry Hitchings, the new man on the Evening Standard, and Susannah Clapp of the Observer, as well as by Rosemary Squire of the Ambassador Theatre Group.
Henry nearly got away with a dressed-down sporty look, but was still perplexed, possibly dazzled, by a green shirt I’d worn the night before at the Carrie’s War opening. He’s a jolly nice chap, despite having gone to Eton.
It’s odd seeing people out of context. You don’t really have that much to say to each other, and it’s no place to start trading critical wisdom on last night’s show, and beyond mumbling a few non-committal pleasantries about what might be coming up next week – my mind went completely blank at this point — we agreed to move on from each other, like passing ships in the night.
It’s more fun, really, to catch up with colleagues you never see from one TLS party to the next, such as the literary historian Lucy Hughes-Hallett, the brilliant broadcaster and writer Russell Davies and Lizzie Spender, Barry Humphries’ wife.
Lizzie was competing big-time with Rebekah Wade, the Sun editor, for being the best looking best-dressed woman in the room, and I think she edged it. She was accompanied by Barry’s son Oscar, whom I liked enormously. And, boy, was he cool.
Rebekah was with new husband Charlie Brooks, the racing horse trainer, and great friend of Madeleine Lloyd Webber, with whom I’ve chucked many a bread roll at the Sydmonton Festivals.
I needed to check out if it was really true that he and Rebekah’s ideal Sunday was spent jetting to Venice for lunch and back to Wilton’s for dinner, and I’m mightily relieved to discover this was just a joke answer to the quiz question.
TLS editor Peter Stothard’s best friend from Oxford, Howard Davies — not the theatre director, but the former head of the Confederation of British Industry and now director of the London School of Economics– was on hand, and so were distinguished former TLS editors John Gross (once the Sunday Telegraph’s drama critic, too, and a damned good one) and Ferdy Mount.
I reminded Ferdy, once one of Mrs Thatcher’s closest advisers, that he had hosted director Giles Havergal’s riotous fiftieth birthday party and he then told me a story so ripe and hilarious that it vaporised instantly in the fuggy party atmosphere.
It all made such a very nice change from the usual strained interval chit-chat we endure each night in the theatre. And with any luck, once the alterations have been made, I’ll have a new rig-out to astonish old Henry with at a future first night.