Going to events (usually ) is part of my job, but does that make the prospect of turning up and not knowing another living soul any less daunting? Absolutely not. I am forever haunted by the memory of going to a very chic fashion event at a prominent industry person’s home where everyone knew each other except for, yep, you guessed it, me. In a desperate attempt to shake me off, the host loudly proclaimed, “Look at that!” and when I turned back, she’d vanished—some party trick.
I have the dual curse of hating my own company and also being—at times—painfully shy, which means I move through life in fear of looking like an Edward Hopper painting—hopefully, that redhead in because at least she’s hot—(I never said I wasn’t vapid). I recently attended one such event, which began with me skulking in the literal shadows of the sun-drenched terrace at Coal Drops Yard, voice noting my friend and colleague, Natalie, wailing, “I feel like I’m at a wedding, and everyone knows each other except me!” I looked out at the beautifully laid table set for 100 guests as part of Self Space’s (ironically in aid of combating ) and debated fleeing. No one would even notice I’ve gone, I reasoned/sulked.
All around me was the lively chatter of old friends. Or so I thought. Later, when I’d muscled into the conversation of my two nearest table mates, a fellow journalist (hello, Alice!) and comedian Laura Smyth (more from her later), I discovered they’d also just met ea.