So much for my little secret. ‘You what?’ Kate’s molars cracked on a Japanese rice cracker. We were at Anouska’s posh Chelsea Harbour apartment for the official present opening where, traditionally, girlfriends gather to hyperventilate over colanders and comedy oven gloves. We’d watched aghast, as an eleven-inch-high Francis of Assisi scratching a Royal Doulton dog’s nose emerged from its gift wrapping. Why is there such a complete collapse of good taste when it comes to wedding presents? Why is it that normal, sophisticated couples, collectors of Art Deco, subscribers to Interior Design magazines, suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to purchase crockery bullocks carting glow-in-the-dark sleighs or tartan egg-cups from Argos? (Argos is the place I took my friends to show them what I didn’t want for my wedding.) ‘When?’ said Anouska. ‘With whom?’ demanded Kate. ‘Where?’ they said in unison. ‘At your wedding. I don’t know his name. By the pool.’ I answered them in order.
