Last night, a charity auction. I picked up the pal with the tickets. "You'll spot my cleavage before the car," I warned. "You'll see mine blocking the office window," she responded. Like a pair of turkeys being fattened for Christmas we drove into town. Every space around the venue was diplomatic badges only. So we dumped the car by the Savoy. And got a cab. On arrival, we were greeted by the papparazzi. Who, it turned out, were stalking Liz Hurley. She passed like a wraith: so pale, her features are bleached out. The boyfriend, however, is scrumptious... Two glasses of champagne and smalltalk with a billionaire lifted our spirits as we headed into dinner. Hours of it. And a worthy film. And a kilted Sikh MC who died a thousand comic deaths. Which was embarrassing. Because I know him. And can't wait to tell his mates;-) The auction was pretty impressive. But it didn't impress my friend. "When we did our hedge fund dinner, they were bidding in leaps of twenty thousand," she said. Which is how her excellent cause netted a million in half an hour. Last night's event was modest in comparison. The audience only boasted bankers. So the bids went up in mere 500s. Which isn't to say they didn't do well... Afterwards we bought raffle tickets and enjoyed thirty glorious minutes of Rory Bremner live on stage before walking the half mile to the car. In high heels. And pouring rain. I coughed all night:-(