The other Saturday I ended up visiting the Troubadour in West Brompton for a friend’s combined birthday and engagement party. It’s a great fun venue, formerly visited by Dylan and Hendrix, it very much seems the kind of place you’d expect them to hang out. A good time was had by almost everyone.
Actually the only pall on the whole evening came when some oik managed to bump into me spilling my red wine over Katherine’s new silk skirt.
Despite several attempts to remonstrate with the man he seemed to be feigning deafness. Now I would have normally left the situation there. No need to resort to violence which seemed the only remaining action if he couldn’t hear us.
But no, our host, who is one of the most persuasive people I have ever met, persuaded him to buy Katherine a glass of white wine to throw on herself. I’m not sure the man understood what was being asked of him as he wanted to know which kind of white wine we’d prefer.
Catherine*, our host, is like a one woman pressure group. And very effective she was too. She mainly just repeatedly asked him if he’d ever read Mrs Beaton. When the guy returned a few minutes later with the wine it looked like he wanted to be the one to throw the wine himself as if to be sure that it wasn’t going to be drunk. But in the end he seemed satisfied to watch as it happened. He then shook his head and wondered off.
I can’t help but imagine what happened on Monday morning at the water cooler.
Friend: So how was Saturday? Big night?
Him: Well I bought a girl a drink.
Him: She poured it on herself.
Friend: Surely the tradition is to pour it on you.
Him: I know, this suit doesn’t get sticky by itself.
Friend: Don’t talk to me anymore.
* Confusing having a Katherine and a Catherine in a story isn’t it. But then that’s the problem of not being the author of your own life.