I went to a jolly lovely Gay old dinner party last night in Notting Hill. There were several very lovely gays here, convivial company, silver napkin rings, several sizes of fork - you know the drill.
We were an interesting bunch - including a fund manager, a TV chef, two technical gurus... oh, and a bloke who manages a branch of Sainsbury's but is off work at the moment with a rollerblading injury.
The TV chef explained all about the horrors of running cookery classes for spoiled Essex princesses. And brought chocolates he's had made in class.
One technical guru (I couldn't normally afford to be in the same room as him) told me more about what's really happening at BBCi than I ever believed possible. My solution to a problem with the BBC Rights Group is to get my boss to take them to lunch. His is to take them to California.
The bloke with the rollerblading injury manages to be handsome, witty, and a great cook. Plus manages a vast retail empire. Shrug. I have enough trouble keeping the spider plant in the bathroom alive.
The other technical guru claimed to have had George Michael last summer. Penthouse. Black satin sheets. Stubbly and slightly uncomfortable. Breakfast was black coffee.