WEEKEND COLUMNISTS Cream and white. A lot of cream and white. That is how my Single Girlfriend described the house that we had been invited to. I do not usually require details of soft furnishings before I accept an invitation, but her intelligence (she has visited herself) was in response to an earlier invite to Cost Centre #3. CC#3 is a 10-year-old boy. Nothing like one’s children (unescorted) to make or break your reputation when they are in close proximity to cream-and-white soft furnishings.
But then we were invited – sans children – to the same house. Mr M declined to go (key golf match). More fool him. Our host had generously provided all the hallmarks of an anti-credit crunch St Tropez weekend – private jet from London City and then a couple of EC-130s to pick us up from Toulon and put us down in the back garden. I was still at my desk at noon; by 5pm UK time I had unpacked, had a glass of champagne and was in the pool. But as I got out of the pool and covered myself in a cotton wrap (my legs do not bear inspection), disaster struck.
I sat down to chat to some fellow guests and sip another glass of champagne. Half an hour later, getting up to go and dress for dinner, I realised that I had sat in a non-colourfast wrap on a chair covered in cream cushions – leaving behind a prominent pink mark. Forget CC#3 – his mother had wrecked the soft furnishings within an hour of arrival. I spirited the cushion away to the kitchen where the staff took over and it was back on the chair the next day, our host seemingly unknowing. Phew.
Lunch at Club 55 the next day resembled the Chelsea Flower Show, except in casual dress: corporate Britain comes to the Riviera. A member of the restaurant staff stood outside the men’s loo (55 does up to 900 covers a day but it still only has two single urinals and one stall) putting FTSE 100 CEOs into a holding pattern, while ladies (four cubicles) slipped past. Our host had asked me to undertake the very important task of transporting his bathing trunks in my beach bag; after lunch he changed, swam and put his boxer shorts in there for me to carry back.
The next morning I realised I still had them. All the houseguests were assembled outside – should I present them to him in front of the others? Should I give them to the staff (and what would they think)? Should I try and sneak them into his bedroom (his wife, like Mr M, had stayed in the UK)? Should I leave them in my room for his cleaner to notice when she came in to make my bed? Unable to face any of these options, I kept them hidden, and then forgot about them.
On the Monday evening we flew back. Because of my own aviation enthusiasm, I can no longer sit on private jets and just read Hello! magazine. I asked questions for the entire flight: “why is the airspeed indicator not accurate at Flight Level 410?”; “why is it mandatory to have anti-skid to land at London City?” and so on. Back home, in front of Mr M’s startled gaze, I unpacked a pair of Gap boxer shorts, large (34-36in waist). I had some explaining to do – but not about the colour. They were white.
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It is (almost) a matter of some surprise to me that October marks the 10th anniversary of the first Mrs Moneypenny column. Since then, apart from a year off in 2005, I have written it every week. To mark the anniversary I would like to offer readers the chance to help me write it. I am offering a bottle of Krug (at my own expense) to the three readers who, in the judgment of the editor of the FT Weekend Magazine, send in the best letters of 200 words or fewer on what this column should address in future. Entries should be sent to the e-mail address below by 5pm GMT Friday September 18 (full terms and conditions at www.ft.com/moneypennyterms). Be warned: all correspondence will be considered for publication!
