The shame of fame

So, you’re famous. Well done you. Now, thousands of people are going to be watching your every move, idolising you, imitating you, loving you. With great power comes great responsibility. Spiderman could handle it. Can you, Paris Hilton?

You’d think famous people would take on this burden with a little more skill. And some do, I know. I won’t generalise too much as it isn’t fair on the Shakira’s of this world. Oh. You don’t know about Shakira? Not enough do. I’ll tell you later.

Most of the silly little famous people who deface our weekly magazines, our red top newspapers, our websites, our clothing chains, our coca cola cans, our billboards, our every breath, are not up to the job. What’s with Paris Hilton getting let out of jail early? That seemed a trifle unfair. She was sentenced to 45 days in prison for violating a probation order (for drink driving). Four days into her sentence, she was released for ‘medical reasons.’ That judge needed a good talking to. Paris Hilton should have served her time as a lesson to all her fans. If you get caught drink driving, you will have to do the time. Not, if you, mere mortal, get caught drink driving, you, mere mortal, will have to do the time, but I, princess of the parties, will not do the time for my crime because I didn’t really like jail very much. What kind of lesson is that?

Madonna’s latest adoption. We all expected her to waltz in there, grab Mercy, sling her in the back of the private jet and be off. Yes, she’s minted, and that would be a nice alternative for someone who otherwise faces a life of poverty and neglect. But Madonna, let’s not forget, is also over 50, always on tour, divorced and has three children by three fathers. If you took away the Madonna, would that divorced, 50 year old mother of three (by three different fathers) be able to bypass Malawi's strict adoption policies? Unlikely.

If your daily goings on are going to be splashed all over the tabloids for all to judge, then all the more reason for you to be made an example of. Young women can’t be seeing Paris Hilton ‘find god’ in jail, be let out early, then go back to her pink and fluffy life without a second thought to all the humanitarian schools she promised to open. It teaches young women that if they say ‘that’s hot’ and bleach their hair, they can get away with criminal activity.

Young women can’t be seeing Madonna decide it’s time to add to her brood, pick a country, pick a child, and expect the laws to be bent especially for her. It teaches young women that if you sell enough records, do enough yoga, scare enough people with your weird veins, you can have whatever you want. Disregard the law, folks, just get famous like me!

Good work on the stirling music career, Maddie, but if you could just abide by the same governmental laws as the rest of us, that’d teach young, impressionable fans that no amount of money can buy you a child. Good work on the, er, what do you do Paris? But if you could just do your paltry 45 days then it would teach young, impressionable fans that fame can’t buy you a get out of jail free card.

Shakira? Well, since you ask. Shakira is thought of as a princess in Colombia. Not a princess like Paris. She doesn’t turn up in a diamond encrusted car, wearing a diamond encrusted dress, to the opening of an envelope. Shakira is thought of as a princess because she has donated $40 million to the victims of natural disasters. In 1995 she founded the Pies Descalzos Foundation, opening schools for under privileged children. She’s helped thousands of children who couldn’t otherwise afford to get an education. On her 32nd birthday she opened a $6 million school in her hometown of Barranquilla.

For Paris Hilton’s 28th birthday, she cruised by private jet to Las Vegas. You ought to require a license to be famous. And Paris ought to be denied hers.

Shakira sings and dances for a living, but when she gets off a plane, people swoon because she saves lives. She embraces the great responsibility that comes with the great power of fame. Just like Spiderman.

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Little Miss Chief

The giant wagon wheels and life sized exotic animals outside the Chief Trading Garden Centre in Oldland Common were always enough to unleash a little curiosity when I drove past, but not enough for me to stop and see exactly what kind of garden centre sells elephants and gorillas.

Until today.

I’d been longing to grow some tomatoes ever since I left my piddly London flat for the green and supreme hills and vales of the west country. I’d heard tomatoes were low maintenance, and that’s the kind of gardening that appealed to me. I was given a bonsai tree once. Big mistake. The poor little thing didn’t have a hope in hell.

As winter finally gave way to spring, it was time to embrace the Green Lady within. Throwing caution to the wind, and forgetting the Bonsai lesson, I decided to up the stakes. Why not bung in some herbs too and see what happens? Taking my urge to live the good life by the reins, I invested in some rosemary, thyme (even I know they're like salt and pepper, you just need both) parsley, mint, and sage. Goodbye Grazia. Hello Gardener’s World.

It was a need for some compost for these little fellas which led me to drag my boyfriend to the Chief Trading Post, a garden centre which, we were to discover, puts all others in the shade. We came for compost. We stayed for the paradise within.

What an incredible experience. I’ve been to garden centres before, I know they supply trinkets and gnomes, fridge magnets and patio slabs, but this one really goes above and beyond. We spent a few bewildering hours wandering around the jungle-like greenhouses and pretending we owned a farmhouse, just so we could imagine where we'd put the wagon wheel swinging seat and hand carved rocking chair.

Inside, things only got better. Having decided we’d grow both tomatoes and strawberries in our grow bag, and having garnered advice aplenty from the multitude of cheery workers, we sat down for a well earned scone. Well, all the dreaming about farmhouses whilst going ‘ooh’ at big benches and bright flowers was exhausting work. Any excuse to use the sentence 'lashings of strawberry jam' gets my vote. The food was delicious, and if I haven’t already driven home how happy the employees were, I’ll reiterate. Working Easter Saturday didn’t deter these folk from some witty banter and encouraging guidance to a pair of novices like Gareth and me.

The café, or high tea saloon, to use the proper name, is immersed in a labyrinth of cacti, so humongous they’re bursting through the roof, giving the whole scone scoffing experience wonderful charm.

If I were five years old, I’d be off gallivanting through the maze of sand pits, plants, lions, gypsy caravans and hanging baskets. If I had children, I’d bring them here for a day out. I’d teach them all about plants and let them take home (to the farmhouse) one fruit or vegetable to grow for themselves. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I can barely keep these herbs alive, let alone a child.

Floating from our lovely garden centre experience, we came home and got green fingered. Much to my delight, Gareth , who I thought might head straight to his laptop and leave me to it, joined me on the patio for some potting. He re-homed the tomatoes while I tended the herbs, which I'd forgotten to water since buying a week ago and were on their last legs. Nothing a bit of baby bio won't sort out, I'm sure. ‘Doesn’t it make you feel at one with nature?’ I asked, encouraging Gareth's green side. ‘I’m very at one with my grow bag,’ he replied with the kind of dead pan tone that reminded me not to push it.

As we surveyed our makeshift garden, fingers muddy and herbs looking rather like a child who knows the babysitter doesn’t have much faith in their child caring abilities (wilting away from us slightly. Cowering, you might say) we smiled satisfactorily. The whole experience can be summed up in no other word than delightful.

My god. I’m using the word ‘delightful' to describe my past times. Look out Grandma, there’s a young pretender to your rocking chair.

I think I need a stiff drink. Luckily I’ve got some homegrown mint, barely making it past week one in my care, ready to fulfill it’s destiny and become a mojito. Pass the rum, I need to regain my youth.



The Chief Trading Post LTD Barry Road, Oldland Common, BS30 6QY 01179 323 112

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Over doing it

Consumerism. It’s got me written all over it. I don’t like to think that I equate happiness with consumption and the purchase of material possession, because if I did, I’d be shallow and superficial, my life would have no true meaning and you’d think I was vain and inconsiderate of the real issues of the world – of poverty and disease, of politics and war.

Well, I do care about those things, but I also like buying things. Can I be a happy consumer with a conscience?

Whilst on my recent holiday, I noticed that I was on a downward spiral of spending. It wasn’t my fault. It was my camera’s fault.

Because I am snap happy, I took lots of holiday pictures. Lamenting the death of the printed picture, I decided this time, I’d buy an album and make sure the pictures got printed and put in a pretty album for my coffee table. Not just any old album. It had to be a Paperchase album, they are so pretty. And we’ll need a nice new frame for the best picture, to go on the mantelpiece. And if it’s going on the mantelpiece, we better get some candles to go next to it. With matching coasters. Those coasters only come with matching tablemats. Ooh! Look at that table runner. That’ll look good when we have guests. Let’s get a fancy wine bottle holder too. Going to need some good wine to go in it. Have you tried this new recipe? It goes well with wine. Maybe I need an apron, for all this cooking. Perhaps a new outfit. Some new shoes to go with my new outfit, as I simply have none that match. Some new plasters to mend my feet where my new shoes rub. Fun plasters, I like the fun plasters best.

Taking that first holiday snap has proved rather costly and suddenly I now have a whole new wardrobe. But then, if I didn’t buy that new dress, then I'd effect so many people. If I can get my head around the politics of the recession, as my dad has tried so many times to explain to me, then as I understand it, if we all just carried on spending, they’d be no recession.

(All I hear is, carry on spending. Then my mind wanders off while he explains recession and depression and currency and …. Oo! Currants! They go down nicely sprinkled on yoghurt. See? How will I ever learn, when all political lessons drift into culinary delights?)

Anyway, what my father is trying to teach me, is that if I don’t buy my dress, the shop sells less dresses, so they buy less dresses, so the dressmaker is told to make less dresses, so she sells less dresses, so she makes less money, so she spends less money, and so on and so on, until suddenly I’m responsible for the lorry driver who would have delivered my dress to the shop being made redundant and the dress maker having to sell her children to make ends meet. Just keep spending, Kim, just keep spending. These people need you.

I do have a needy urge to spend on a regular basis and I satisfy this urge by being ‘in charge’ of the weekly shop. My feminist, independent friend Nic thinks I’m mad for relinquishing the responsibility of food shopping from my fella, but I know if he did it, he’d come back with a crate of beans, a carrot, and a bewildered look on his face. More importantly, I would not have satisfied my spending urge, so would end up on a website clicking ‘add to basket’ manically at 3am with a carrot in my hair and beans in my tea.

I’m not shallow or superficial, honest. The true meaning of my life is to spend quality time with my loved ones, to laugh and feel thrill and content on a daily basis. I’m considerate and only slightly vain. I help blind people cross the road, on my way to the shops. I care about the world, I buy fair trade, I recycle.

Half of me wants to give it all up, live on a deserted island with nothing but a coconut for company. The other half likes my new outfit. And I do already live on an island. The island of the United Kingdom. Bring on consumerism and it’s many outfits. I can get a coconut in Asda.

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Wobble my knobble

Wootton Primary School Knobbly Knees Competition, 1988. Winner, Kim Willis, aged six. Thank you, thank you very much.

I haven't won much in my life. No lotteries, no holidays, no hampers. But I did win that, and I thank my knobblers for it. I love them. They look like the knee cap is out of joint. My mum says they’re endearing, my boyfriend finds them funny. Whatever they are, there’s one thing they are not, and that is touchable. So why, woman, go for a full body massage? Aren’t you just asking for trouble?

We were on holiday, the sunshine was effecting my decision making. Oo, yes, a full body please, where do I sign? It had all the ingredients for a perfect hour. The Thai beach, Thai masseuse, Thai sunshine dancing through the leaves of the Thai trees. Thai flies hovering around the sticky, warm Thai massage oil… just heaven.

I closed my eyes and waited to be transported to a fluffy cloud of relaxation. A damp flannel was placed over my eyes. I listened to the gentle, rhythmic sound of the ocean, the waves crashing onto the beach just yards away. I breathed in, I breathed out.

Hit me! Hit me relaxation, I’m ready for you!

She began. She was gentle. Too gentle. She was tickling me. I tensed up. My knuckles went white, my muscles were taught. Stop tickling me, woman, for the love of god! (This was, of course, an internal monologue. I wasn’t about to break the British code of conduct – stay silent at all times, keep all grievances internal and mumble a pathetic and insincere thank you at the end).

Full body massage? It was like she’d spied the only parts of my body I did not want massaged and homed in on them. My knees, my elbows, my feet, my thighs. Thighs? As if knees weren’t bad enough, who can stand having their thighs prodded? Not I.

The flies were so insistent that, to presumably help me float off to a world of calm, she lowered the flannel currently only covering my eyes, so it covered my whole face.

So I couldn't breathe. I wondered at what point of this excruciatingly ticklish massage I was going to break my Britishness and ask her to stop wobbling my knobblies, and that, if it's not too much bother, would she mind if I had some oxygen. Perhaps just before I lost consciousness I might have dramatically peeled back the damp flannel and gasped, if not ‘get the hell off me,’ then at least ‘tell my mum I loved her.’ Then I could flop back down, apparently dead, and finally relaxed. Death by knee massage. It would certainly be a different way to go.

Concentrate. Stop thinking about dying. This was supposed to be relaxing. Breathe, Kim, breathe. I realised I hadn't for a while. But then, at last, she moves onto my back. My back, I could enjoy. The flannel fell off my face as I turned over and I took a much needed breathe. I made it a long one.

My back massage lasted ten seconds. Then the torture restarted.

My eyebrows! I’m not lying to you, she massaged my eyebrows. Is that really necessary? I was not aware that my eyebrows were tense (although, at that moment, every single inch of me was tense, longing for my hour to be up so I could have my body back).

Please, God, let it be over.

God, you are a bastard. The eyebrows were not the end.

The eyeballs, people, she moved on to the eyeballs.

Horrible for most people, but for a contact lens wearer like myself, it was hell on a Thai beach. Hell. I squirmed, it was all I could do. She laughed and carried on. The wench.

I don’t like massages anymore. I’ve realised although some parts of it might be enjoyable enough, I never know when the next knee rub or elbow prod is going to happen, so I spend the entire hour in a constant state of pent up fear, my muscles taught, my teeth gritted. And I’m the mug paying for this experience.

The hour finally comes to an end and my sister and father sit up beside me, breathing deep, satisfied breaths and saying ‘oooh’ and ‘ahh’ a lot. I had better join in.

‘Yes, amazing, mmmm, great,’ I agreed. Are they just being polite like me? ‘The best massage I’ve ever had,’ Tammi said, smiling kindly at her masseuse. Alright, Tammi, don’t over do it. They’ll get ideas. ‘Thank you,’ I mumbled, pulling on Tammi’s elbow, trying to leave.

Too late. She’s only gone and suggested we come back same time tomorrow.

‘Yes please, I’d love to!’ I said out loud, while the little man in the control panel inside my head puts his little head in his little hands and sighs wearily.

‘Kim you idiot,' he sighed. 'Who's in charge here? Just. Say. No! Thanks to your quick tongue, you're paying for another hour of your life to be stolen by a gentle, ticklish, eyeball prodder. That's it, I quit.' And with that, the little man in the control panel inside my head hops off his little stool and, grabbing his little hat from the little hat rack he keeps beside my frontal lobe, he stormed out.

Oh, holidays, they’re just so much bloody fun aren’t they?

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Schmalintine’s Day

A quick google shows me that St Valentine was a Roman who was martyred for refusing to give up Christianity. Sounds like a right plum. He died on February 14th and left a farewell note to the jailer’s daughter, signing it ‘from your Valentine.’

What would this chap think to know his name has been turned by Clinton Cards into a means for them to survive the dip in sales between Christmas and Easter, I wonder.

Valentine’s Day is a test. If you don’t buy a dozen red roses, a giant fluffy teddy and an over sized card, you have failed as a husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/mistress/admirer/human being. You should be ashamed of yourself.

No, Clinton Cards, you should be ashamed of yourself. Love isn’t a who-got-the-biggest-teddy-bear contest. You’ve gone and ruined a perfectly good idea haven’t you?

There’s two sides of the fence to sit about Valentine’s Day. There’s the cool gang, sitting, gloating, on the ‘we don’t ‘do’ Valentine’s Day' side. Women who declare it a commercialised media frenzy, and opt out, much to the relief of their otherwise fretting other halfs.

And then there’s the ‘we do, so you better’ crowd. Woman expecting, wishing, hoping to be romanced in every possible way. Bring on the full works – flowers, dinner, rose petals adorning the satin sheets of their boudoir. And why not? They clean their men’s pants all year long, a thankless task, why shouldn’t they enjoy an albeit forced day of romance…

Unfortunately for my boyfriend, I pretend to be in the former, cool, group, but secretly I’m in the latter, making Valentine’s Day a bit tricky for him as he tries to please every side of my personality.

‘I don’t want to celebrate Valentine’s Day,’ I declared triumphantly a week before. ‘Great,’ he replied, ‘then we can go to that party.’

Hmph. Talked myself out a night of romance there didn’t I. Nice one Kim.

Then, a few days later, he brings up the party.

‘I don’t want to go to the stupid party!’ I tantrumed. Of course. What part of ‘yes, let’s go to that party’ made him think I wanted to go?

I don’t want Clinton Cards to profit from our love, but I do want lots of attention. Last year, Gareth gave me this blog, following a comment weeks earlier that I missed writing. I was bowled over – a gift that ticked so many boxes – he showed he was thoughtful, that he gave unusual and useful gifts and that he had ears. All good things in a man. Especially the ears.

A year on, how would his actions compare?

As he kept ‘fooling’ me into thinking he had nothing planned, by telling me he had nothing planned, I did begin to think he was a one hit wonder.

Oh, the cad. We had salmon and eggs for candlelit breakfast, accompanied by a Tesco Value valentine’s card, inscribed with some Enrique Iglesias lyrics about being my, er, hero. This year’s practical gift came in the shape of a heart rate monitor, for when I run. Lucky I wasn’t wearing it when I got the card, (did I mention the bar code was bigger than the heart) as I’m sure my heart rate was through the roof.

We watched the rugby, during which I gamely drank 3 pints of Aspells cider. It’s strong. Then we got fish and chips and sat on a hill overlooking the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

Now before you go and stick your fingers down your throat at my romantic day, let me assure you we didn’t go home to a wild night of passion. After a combination of three really strong pints of cider on an empty stomach and some batter wrapped fish, I felt passionate about nothing but vomiting. Gareth’s a lucky man.

But it was still the best Valentines Day I’ve ever had. Can we do this every month, I asked the next day? Why wait until Clinton tells us to?

Yes darling, he replied. But let’s change the name. Knowing what a strop I’d have been in if he hadn’t pulled out all the stops, despite me declaring I didn’t ‘do’ Valentine’s Day, Gareth’s come up with a new name for our monthly Valentine’s day.

The Keep Kim Kosha Day, or the KKK for short.

Well, it does have a certain ring to it. I think I’ll wear white.

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I blame Jennifer Aniston

Hollywood projects an unreasonable example of what we should expect from our partners and, as I found out this morning, creates thunderstorms where once there was sunshine.

I blame Jennifer Aniston. She had to go and have floaty hair and be all watchable didn’t she? So despite the fact I like festivals and being gobby and climbing trees, I also like Jennifer Aniston rom-coms.

The latest ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’ serves to knock the confidence any woman has in her man. He’s either going to refuse to marry you, or marry you then cheat on you, or cheat on you, or be a pizza scoffing, fat bellied pig, or cheat on you, or all of the above.

My boyfriend was none of the above until I saw this film, to which he came with me to see because he is none of the above. My girlfriend had seen it without me at the weekend so I had no one to watch it with. He stepped up, not even complaining. I think he wanted an excuse to eat ice cream.

I left the cinema feeling bewildered and like I’d been pummeled with the information that all men were jerks and if your heart wasn’t breaking now it certainly would one day. When he cheats on you.

So I woke up the next morning in a bit of a sulk and caused an argument. Then once the argument was in the air, I wanted to retract it, I wanted to rewind time, because I suddenly felt like a fruit loop, like a high maintenance girlfriend, the kind you see having a go at their poor fellas in Asda. My boyfriend was understandably confused by my outburst and said he felt a little lost as to what to do to solve matters.

It was clear only the moon on a stick was going to be good enough for this little madam.

Obviously, I’m not so ignorant to think that this is all Jennifer Aniston’s fault. I do think popular culture has a lot to answer for, but I'll hold my hand up and take at least 2% of the blame myself, for being led by idealistic movies. Films portray an unrealistic fairytale ending. One where the guy does whatever it takes, and the girl doesn’t come across as loopy. But that’s not real life.

Even love songs and poems help create the illusion in women’s minds that somewhere out there is some kind of fantastical love so immense and overpowering that if you haven’t got it there must be something pretty wrong with you. If you’re in a relationship where you find yourselves discussing the merits of the smell of Lenor and whether you want sausages for dinner, then you’ve somehow failed, because Jenifer Aniston doesn’t discuss Lenor. Or sausages.

But after a lot of soul searching today and after feeling like a bit of a fool for suggesting my quite romantic boyfriend doesn’t love me because he hasn’t done any grand sweeping gestures for a while, I’ve come to the realisation that actually this is my fairytale. I’d rather discuss Lenor, which, I’ll have you know, makes your clothes smell just lovely, than have some guy arrive on a horse with a rose between his teeth. I’d think he was a right knob.

I like reality. I like sausages and Lenor and I don’t want the milk tray man. So that’s it. No more bloody rom coms. They’re dangerous.

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Etiquette. What's to get?

Etiquette. The rules and conventions governing correct or polite behaviour in society in general or in a particular social or professional group or situation.

Sounds pretty simple to me.

Lack of etiquette really gets my goat. You either have it, or you don’t. You can’t make grand, sweeping gestures with your etiquette skills. Your etiquette skills are subtle, often go unnoticed, if you have them. If you don’t, then your lack of them can be so smack bang, shoutingly obvious to others, it’s hard to believe people don’t realise just how impolite they are. I suppose they would if they were trained in etiquette. People trained in etiquette are so aware of being perceived as even slightly rude, they go out of their way to be generous, courteous, thoughtful. I like people with etiquette.

You don’t have to go to finishing school to have basic etiquette skills. I think my mum’s best friend, my favourite fake aunt, went to finishing school, but aside from her, I don’t know of a soul who was sent to finishing school. Yet most of the people with whom I choose to spend my time have etiquette in abundance. And when I find myself in a situation with people who have none, I get really wound up. It’s an injustice.

Good etiquette skills – some examples:

My best mate and the future bride to my maid – the most thoughtful, generous woman I know, except me. Cesca, for that is her name, is a fellow letter writer. If invited to dinner, she arrives with wine. At dinner, she engages in conversation, asks about the host’s life, gives great banter. She eats enough to show she’s enjoyed herself, but not so much as to be seen as some kind of guzzling, get-it-cos-it’s-free hobo. After dinner, perhaps the next day, she writes to thank the host for the spread, thus giving the host a warm glow and a want to reinvite her soon. It’s not rocket science, but judging by some of the invitees I’ve had round for dinner, you’d think it was.
My dear friend Laurence. He never, ever, let’s your glass get empty. He would never dream of filling his own glass without filling yours too. As soon as guests arrive, he offers them a drink and then spends the rest of the night with a vigilant eye on their glass. He opens doors for women and serves other people before himself. He’s also rude, loud, obnoxious, opinionated and stubborn. My point being, you can be anyone, have any personality traits, and still have etiquette.

My sister Tammi. Thoughtful to a fault. So thoughtful she, if you actually worked it out, probably finishes a night out of pocket, as her generosity knows no bounds. And most of her friends take full advantage of this, the pikey little scumbags.

My father – good etiquette skills. Opens doors for women, will live and die by the FHB rule. (that’s Family Hold Back, to the uninitiated. If you don't know about FHB, you probably don't have any etiquette skills).

The list goes on. But let's move on to the rude.

Perched on their probably stolen stools on the other side of the fence, some other friends of mine, who I suppose will have to remain anonymous, although quite why I’m being so kind as to keep them anonymous I’m not sure. Oh, it’s that bloody etiquette again isn’t it. Damn. If only I was as rude as them, they’d be named and shamed right here.

Gareth and I went for dinner with some friends the other day. Not once did either of them ask me an iota about my life. Every pause in conversation, I had to think of yet another thing to ask - about them. Banter. Banter goes to and fro, no? Obviously not to these self absorbed bastards. I've told Gareth I no longer wish to see them. I've written them off.

Last night, we had some other friends round for dinner. They brought a bottle of wine.

(I will interlude here. Bringing a bottle of wine to a dinner party is like a rite of passage into my life. If you don’t, it's bye bye bingo. The host is providing the meal, slaving away over it, the least you can do is bring a bloody bottle. When Laurence and I lived together, I would take pride in sending my rude and incompetent friends down the road to the off lcense if they were rude enough to arrive without a bottle. And then, after the evening was over, I would strike them off the list of people who were invitable. When I first started seeing Gareth, he was invited to a dinner at my then home, which I shared with my etiquette-in-abundance friends Cesca, Mike and Cordelia. He did not bring wine. Unfortunately I rather liked him so I had to hold off from striking him off my list. But I still told him he was walking a fine line and never to ever make that mistake again. Which he did. And he doesn’t pour me a drink when he’s pouring his own. But I’m working on him.)

So these friends came for dinner. Yes yes, they brought wine. Well bloody done. Clap clap. It was red. I don’t drink red. So they drank it. They drank the wine they brought me. Then they proceeded to drink ALL our wine – I worked it out the next morning when I was clearing up. Gareth and I drank rose, and there were two empty bottles. They drank red. Five empty bottles, plus all the spirits they moved on to once we had run out of red.

A bit rude, I feel. Now we have no wine reserves. In one fell swoop they rinsed us of our wine collection which, if I do some quick sums, would have cost us about £40. Plus the price of the meal. So I spent perhaps £100. They spent £5. And drank it.

I know hosting costs more than guesting. I’m not an idiot. I love hosting. I just love etiquette more.

Basic etiquette.

I suppose it’s about thoughtfulness. Thinking about how you come across is social situations and deciding whether you want to be generous and thoughtful or thoughtless, tight and insensitive. I’m pretty annoyed about the wine, in case I hadn’t made myself clear. The only way I can make that back is if I go to their house and get slaughtered, making sure I drink at least five bottles of their wine before moving on to spirits.

But I can’t. I couldn’t consume that much. I would vomit. So I’m out of pocket. And out of wine.

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