THE woman beside me on the plane was coming to London to a 25th wedding anniversary party. She showed me the invitation. It was called "A Celebration of a Quarter of a Century Together". There was going to be a religious ceremony, where they would reaffirm their vows, then they would exchange platinum rings.
We looked at it for some time in silence hoping it might yield up more information into the thinking behind it, but it didn't. The bit about platinum rings had to be a joke, hadn't it?
The silver wedding guest shook her head sadly. She didn't think it was. The invitation also promised a fork buffet. It suggested that dress should be "smart casual". It made you think of a world where middle aged people might otherwise have turned up in a church and at a fork buffet wearing torn jeans and thongs on their feet or having rented tails and the whole catastrophe from Moss Bras. Still, better to spell it out, we agreed reluctantly.
How many did she think would be there? Well, there were 200 at the wedding in 1971, a fair few of those might still be extant, and if they had trawled as far as Ireland to rake up the old guests, they had probably been able to find those who were already in England.
This woman's husband had said she was stark staring mad to go, these were deranged people, but she looked on it as an outing, an adventure, and I agreed. I'd have gone too.
I tried to find something good to say. After all, we were sitting there rubbishing a genuine, sincere invitation to a celebration. And in my case, rubbishing it by remote control, since I didn't know any of them. I wanted to inject a positive note. "At least they didn't send you a wedding, present list," I said.
She looked sheepish and produced a little piece of paper which had come with the engraved invitation. "We know that many of you will want to give us presents but truthfully our home does now have everything we could possibly need so might we suggest that you make donations in lieu to..." and it named some local pressure group which wanted to keep woodland walks available to townies in wellies.
"In lieu," I said to myself wonderingly as we flew into City Airport. "Fork buffet," mumbled my informant, gathering up the box in which a hat that was very smart casual indeed nestled, waiting to knock their eyes out.
THERE'S a woman who walks around here cheerfully in a red rain hat in all weathers talking to anyone who has an animal and she got to know me about 18 years ago when I was reluctantly and nervously minding someone else's big dangerous dog for an hour. So she always stops and asks fondly after this animal and I make up stories about him not to disappoint her. I give him a brief illness now and then and sometimes have him involved in daring rescues. He must well be in the Big Kennels in the Sky by now but I like him to live on as a talking point between us.
Anyway, I saw her coming and braced myself to think of some significant life event for him. But I didn't need to bring him up at all. The woman could talk of nothing except the unfortunate Daphne Banks who was pronounced dead until the undertaker heard her snoring.
The woman in the red rain hat has feared this all her life since she read of nail marks scratched on the lid of a coffin. We stood in the street and discussed how it might feel to be buried alive. How I wished for a dog conversation - it was less alarming. We could arrange to be cremated," I said, trying to be helpful. "I don't want to be burned to a crisp before my time either, thank you very much," she said.
THE young man had come to collect his seven year old son for their Saturday afternoon access visit. I often see them, cold polite looks between the mother and father, and atmosphere you could cut.
Anyway, the little boy said "Where are we going Daddy?" His mother stood at the hall door waiting for the answer. Where would you like to go?" he asked holding the little gloved hand in his. "I'd like to see Princess Di," the child said. "I know," his father was struck with an idea. "Will we go down to Trafalgar Square and feed the pigeons? She's often there on a Saturday." "Do you know her to talk to Daddy?" the child asked as they headed off to the number nine bus. "No, but I know her to see," he said confidently.
THERE'S a marvellous opinionated guide to eating places in London called Harden's London Restaurants, it costs £7.50 and is well worth getting since it's utterly and ruthlessly honest, brief and factual and in the cases of the places I do know, absolutely accurate.
I was a bit taken aback by the rudeness of the staff in a fairly pricey place and I had the Harden's guide in my handbag and looked it up. "Arrogant over rated Knightsbridge trattoria where the cooking becomes even more mediocre and overpriced," it said. I was so delighted that it agreed with me on every point I left it on the table, in full view of everyone.
AT the hairdresser sat a woman who was, to my mind, the client from hell. But what do I know? They seemed to love her and fawn over her. "I'm going to have an entirely new style," she said. "Right, now do you want it close to your face?" "No, no, not close to my face." "Away from your face then?" "No, not away from my face." I wanted to fly from my chair in my protective gown and take her by the throat. But they were interested, it was, after all, a challenge and they decided to call another stylist for a consultation.
The other stylist appeared and the woman who neither wanted her hair close to her face nor away from it gave a screech that froze everyone in the salon. "But you've lost so much weight. You've lost stones and stones. Little person! Tiny person! How did you do it?"
"Well, it's not all that much and I She didn't get an innings. "But you're a tiny person; you used to be a huge, huge person. Remember those great jowls you had? Real jowls, they were darling, and look at you now. A little person. How super, no jowls. Don't ever let it creep on again will you?"
I thought about it for a long time. Would the little person, the tiny jowl less person like all this praise? Was it the reward for the diet, the self control, the exercise? Or might she resent the spotlight and the attention of 30 people beaming on her and the memory of an earlier, more hideous self being brayed all over the salon?
It was a mystery. And I was so glad that I am not in hairdressing. It would be so easy to let that scissors slip.