Fame puts you there where things are hollow

After a pleasant evening drinking yesterday with Madame Acarti's niece and nephew who are in London for a few days, we were wending our way back to their hotel up Drury Lane when we encountered a massive crowd and hordes of paparazzi outside the front of the Royal Opera House.

Now, we Londoners might sniffily sneak a peek at who was traversing the red carpet and then rush by, feigning disinterest as we head to the Tube.

But you can imagine the excitement of our visitors from Plymouth - where the most likely celebrity you would see might be Wincy Willis, or someone who used to be in Brotherhood of Man perhaps - as one by one the great and the not so great began to emerge from the GQ Men of the Year Awards.



We apparently just missed Orlando Bloom, thought we saw Elle McPherson in a passing limo, and obviously didn't see Elton (who would have been airlifted safely away from the cameras no doubt). We did see Gordon Ramsay, Liz Hurley [squeal!], Chris Evans, Lord (Seb) Coe, Mark Ronson and Daisy Lowe [scream!], Jimmy Page of Led Zep, Carol Vorderman [oooh!], Alan Carr - and so it went on.



By now Madame Arcati and I were past criticising the relative Z-list status, frocks and free-champers-induced stupor of various guests as they left (trying desperately to get their photo taken), and we were angling to get another drink.



Our visitors' enthusiasm was undimmed, however, and it took the sound of running water to remind our Jen that she was indeed dying for a pee and to stop shouting for Lily Allen because she's bound to have passed out under a table somewhere and not be able to hear her...

Oh the joys of welcoming tourists to London.

David Bowie - Fame