In many ways the party was an agency event

Friday evening and after work I went to Rachel’s party at her flat (rented with two friends) in Maida Vale.

The flat was on the first floor (which would be the second floor in America) of a commodious block of mansion flats (lots of these blocks all along the avenues - which being a true avenue was lined with trees. The flat consisted of a long wide corridor with a big living-room at the front, then a kitchen, then three bedrooms and a box room. Because I live so far from London I had accepted an offer to stay overnight, but began to regret this when I learned how many other people would be “staying over” (and who intended to keep the party going all night).

All the time I was in the flat Fashion TV played on the television, even during the party.

We arrived at the flat about 7. Rachel introduced me to her two flatmates, Rebecca and Juliette. Chris from the agency arrived, and we all had a pasta dinner sat round the table in the small kitchen (“I would love a proper dining room” said Rachel, “I can’t understand all these people who get rid of their dining rooms”).

The kitchen had a window that faced into a light well, with pigeons living on the window-sills in considerable numbers (deposits of guano were further evidence of the pigeon problem).

After the meal the plates were cleared away at great speed. The three women moved around the flat getting things ready for the party (only one of the rooms was to be off-limits). Having nothing to do I watched Fashion TV (endless parades of women walking towards the camera), talked to Chris and looked around the flat.

At work Rachel has a very tough image, so it was a surprise to see how girlie (and untidy) her bedroom was. I sat on the bed and looked through her back numbers of Vogue and Top Santé. She came into the room and in whispered tones told me how angry she was with her flatmate Rebecca (“she borrowed my best hat earlier today without asking and now it’s ruined - it’s really pissed me off” - she held out the hat to me and I looked at it politely, although there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with it).

Guests started to arrive about 9, and the flat quickly filled up. Two main groups were represented - people from the agency, and friends of the three flatmates. The agency people were all from the upstairs PR division, and in many ways the party was an agency event (various people on the PR side of the agency take turns to host these parties, which happen about every two months).

All the drink was paid for by our MD Terry (pinstripe suit, yellow silk tie, grey crinkled hair that glistened with some kind of oil). At one point I was delegated to help Chris and Douglas go to the off-licence at the end of the road and get some more booze. All the evening I was drinking gin, which didn’t seem to have any effect on me.

At one stage I was talking to “drunken Duncan” who was going on about Scottish devolution: “I’m Scots-Irish. Scotland is my country and I want a say in whether it stays part of the United Kingdom. Just because I live in England for economic reasons doesn’t mean I’ve given up my rights in Scotland. If all the Scots who live in England had a vote you wouldn’t hear any more about Scottish independence. It’s just the same with the six counties in Ireland. There are so many Irish living in England they have a right to keep some of the Irish territory in the United Kingdom…”

Later I was talking to Spencer, the chief copywriter, who I have never got on with: “Really talented people are always loners” he said to me conspiratorially (what did he mean by that?).

Later still I talked to Vince, who heads one of the account groups: “They should completely legalise all drugs, to get rid of the criminal supply element, but at the same time classify anyone caught taking drugs as mentally ill so they can be detained at secure hospitals and cleaned up.”

At 11 o’clock the agency people started to leave. At 12 o’clock Rachel, her flat-mates and their friends said they were going on to a club. I was reluctant to go with them, but also did not want to appear anti-social.

We walked about two miles to the club. Although it was very late, Rachel and her friends were fretting about getting there “too early”. The club was in what had once been a large plain brick pub.

Inside it was packed with teenagers (“I feel too old for all this” I said to Rachel). The main dancing area was downstairs. I made it clear that I was not going anywhere near the dance floor, but neither did I feel I wanted to join the moody onlookers who stood round the sides with their arms folded, nodding their heads to the beat (or do they nod their heads in-between the beat? - it’s important to get these details right).

Chris, Rebecca and myself went upstairs where there was a crowded bar. We stood around with our drinks for a while, and then sat down on a sofa on the landing at the top of the stairs (this sofa was covered in black sequins, which sparkled in the dark). I felt so tired my eyes were smarting. At various intervals the others came up from the dance floor and sprawled on the landing in front of us, looking like characters from the Alma-Tadema painting The Women of Amphissa. It was 3 o’clock before we left the club. Back at the flat I spent about four hours sleeping in an armchair.