Years ago, when I was a poorlypaid editorial assistant, I shared a flat at the far end of Wood Lane – which we optimistically called Ladbroke Grove – with a glamorous starlet living on credit.
She loved parties and wanted us to throw one. Black tie, she decreed, and guests must bring either a bottle of vodka or a bottle of champagne, so they could cram into our tiny sitting room and drink it out of plastic cups while we served crisps.
I was