Head in a cloud of darlings

After hot home-made quiche, rhubarb crumble with cream poured from a stolen half-pint glass, and two top-ups of red wine, we took cabs to the theatre.

Set in WWII, with vintage costumes, upholstered armchairs, and a screen above the scenes for when aircrafts fly right at the audience, we watched a real Hollywood actor play an oldschool Hollywood actor. James Purefoy plus a whole tub of brylcreem*. And a Pole attempting English, a battleaxe hottelier, and a Katherine Hepburn outfit to die for. So many 'darling's and 'duck's and rationed breakfasts, and lashings of pink gin. Though red wine for us in the interval. It ended in a good old sing song, rallying up to face the war together. Flare Path, written by Rattigan when he himself was off fighting, and first performed whilst the war was still on. Repressed fear, trauma, sound of not-so-far-away bombs. Yet so much jolly hockey sticks enthusiasm.

We all piled through the stage door after curtain down. Invited for champagne with a cast member backstage. A 'Darling' the spit of Joyce Grenfell. On the way up we passed Jeremy Irons. On the way out we passed the paparazzi waiting for Sienna Miller. And I wore my vintage Dior jacket the whole night. High life.

* I have been in love with James Purefoy forever. Mansfield Park, A Knight's Tale, Vanity Fair, and, best of all, Marc Antony in ROME. I prefer him with less brylcreem, if I'm honest.