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.