Looking round the room, the main qualification to be on the list seemed to be length of leg and shortness of skirt. I distinguished myself in a fetching purple number with spots on one side and stripes on the other. I thought it looked a mess, but people kept telling me it was a great success.
Unlike Easter egg sales, which due to the hot weather were apparently in meltdown (titter). According to Miranda, who's been dating a defrocked vicar (which means they both are, a good deal of the time) there's a covert Reclaim Easter For God campaign being run by the Church of England.
Its winning strategy was persuading Britain's retailers to offer three eggs for the price of one. Into the gaping void that used to be filled by chocolate will flow the Holy Spirit, or that's what it said in the comms strategy. In reality I think most people spent the day on Hampstead Heath with a few friends and a magnum of the Yellow Widow (but not Karoline with a K 'cos it's a recession and we don't want to seem ostentatious).
Things have changed since the days when PR divas were built like battleships and ostentation was de rigueur. Karoline (with a K) was the Bismarck of her generation before she found the red wine diet, which the papers revealed this week significantly increases the likelihood of dementia.
And I thought it was only gin that helped a girl forget.
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