Morning:
13°c
Black bathrooms come to the polo
Nick Foulkes14.04.09
I CAN tell summer is coming when I receive my first royal invitation. Over the years I have participated in seasonal events such as the presentation by the motor trade to the Queen of a state Bentley; last summer I wound up at Buckingham Palace for a dinner given by the Prince of Wales.
Now I have been asked up to Windsor to cast my eye over the newly refurbished Royal Box at the Guards Polo Club. This sounds smarter than it is: sadly, the call came from the PR firm for the decorator (sorry, interior-design specialist).
Evitavonni is the name of the outfit that has given the place a going over and it has something called a “lifestyle gallery” in Chobham. Having looked at its website, I hope that HM likes jazzy wallpaper and black bathrooms.
I can't wait to see what they have made of the place. The first time I went there was towards the end of the last century, when my elder son was six weeks old and Davidoff was sponsoring a polo game: now my son is a skateboarder with an emo haircut and tobacco sponsorship of sporting events is no more.
Viewed in this context, I suppose that a visit from the lifestyle gallerists was about due.
* THESE days I travel almost as much as Tyler Brülé and very seldom do I throw a tantrum at an airport — it's difficult to summon up the necessary dignified rage when clutching beltless trousers around my waist and trying to hide the hole in my sock while my possessions are x-rayed. However, I must admit to losing my temper the other day when I was told that my transparent plastic bag was too big.
Already irritated by how Osama bin Laden has deprived me of the pleasure of using my Vuitton and Goyard sponge bags, it now appears that the war on terrorism risks being lost by my clear plastic A4 zip-lock from Rymans.
* NEXT week I'm due at the French ambassador's residence to attend the investiture of my friend Arnaud Bamberger, boss of Cartier, with the insignia of the Chevalier de l'Ordre National de la Legion d'Honneur.
Just before Easter I caught up with him and while thrilled, he also seemed to be succumbing to a severe bout of nerves.
I'm not surprised: standing in front a few hundred friends listening to someone speaking about you, your career and life must be like attending your own memorial service, without having had to go to the bother of dying.
However, having been at the Ambassador's residence for dinner, I know the canapés will be better than any memorial I have attended, and with not a Ferrero Rocher in sight.
