16 JULY 1988, Page 41

High Life

Sandwich group


Needless to say, the news of the historic meeting leaked out, and both Robin and I have been besieged by the gutter press ever since. Worse, our mailboxes are inoper- able because of the thousands — and I mean thousands — of .letters and tele- grams voicing support, both moral and material, for our cause. Most touching of all, however, have been the gifts, things like sausages from Lord Vestey, batteries from Lord Hanson, frozen peas from the Sainsburys, and 57 varieties of tomato sauces from Dru Heinz.

Another one of our projects is to seek an alternative for those who live in Campden Hill Square, as we hear that the Pinters have all but bought out the surrounding spaces. Turgut Ozal was particularly eager to do this, but we have not yet passed a resolution because we have been unable to establish how much land — if any — the Pinters have left to their neighbours.

The February 29 club was the good news. The bad is that I have completely failed in my life's ambition, which was to take Jonas Savimbi to Annabel's following the Spectator party last Thursday. In his battle fatigues. As I am a contributor to Unita, I thought I could swing it, and have been planning it for years — I even got Ted at the door to agree — but when the time came Jonas refused. 'Only Castro and those clowns in Nicaragua parade them- selves in nightclubs in tiger suits,' was the way he put it, and I'm afraid he did have a point. Mine, however, was that, as he has great dignity, it was bound to show up the butcher and the clowns by comparison.

Oh, well, perhaps next time. But enough of politics. After all, this is the London season, and what a season it's been. Although a bit groggy from last week, I managed to have a wonderful time at the Spectator party, which, incidentally, was the best I remember. And at the Groucho club we were segregated from the low- lifers who make up its membership, and thus I even enjoyed dinner. Once again, as in every year since High Life began, we ended up in Annabel's, and after dawn the festivities continued in a somewhat more private venue.

By Saturday morning I was a new man, and drove down to Sussex as the daughter of one of my oldest friends, Peter Goulan- dris, was getting married. Although I made it on time, I missed Tina Goulandris's wedding because I went to the wrong one, about five miles west of East Hoarthy. (I never realised it until I heard the vicar pronounce their names.) But I made the reception and the wonderful dinner dance that night. For me it was a special time. I had been an usher at Peter and Kay Goulandris's wedding 30 years ago, and it was nice to still be able to shake a leg at their daughter's nuptials. They are an amazing clan all those Goulandris. There are 107 of them, all very rich, all terribly nice, and there is not a single crook among them. Even more surprising, and unlike in the Church of England, there has never been a gay Goulandris. No wonder I stayed for three days.