It's that time of year again - the pre-Christmas rush of party invitations, or in my case the pre-Christmas foot-dragging dawdle.
Perhaps not totally unsurprisingly - gold-edged stiffies, or indeed even stiffies that have not been gilded attractively around the edges, are always in short supply in my house. Every day I open Mr T's invitations to events as diverse as The Rugby International and The Sunday Times Book Page Party, and my only thrill is recording them in his diary. At home, it's no better. My mantlepiece contains only the month-old invitation to a friend's gallery opening which consisted of me, the four artists who were exhibiting, their children, a few blood relatives, three gallery staff and maybe ten potential customers of whom two just happened to be passing and saw the wine glasses set out on a tray by the door. And all except the passers by were women. It was a sparkling occasion.
This year, however, my social life threatens to dwindle to new microscopic lows as once mutual friends take sides in the marriage break-up and then decide that to perfectly fair, they should probably invite neither of us. I can deal with that. It's much worse having to speak to the people who ring up and then have to be told that there is no longer a Mr with the Mrs on the front of the envelope. This is particularly difficult when some of those people are his first cousins or, as was the case up until only a few months ago, his sister. I'm thinking of putting it as a recorded message on the telephone.
Of course, everyone is embarrassed and as a kindness I should probably say nothing and then just turn up without him. This is what I usually did even when we were married, so what's the difference?
But then the phone rings. It's a friend that I haven't seen since I was part of a couple.
'I know it's very short notice,' she gushes before I've even said hello, 'But do you want to come to dinner tonight? We have a single man.'
I was driving along the embankment at the time, and I almost crashed the car.
'A single man!' (Forget that we haven't spoken in months and she suddenly calls out of the blue because she needs a spare woman.)
'Yes, Palestinian, though - sorry - but rich. Can you come?'
'I can't.'
'Go on, he's quite handsome,' she said, grudgingly, though I've seen the man she married and I'm not sure our tastes are similar.
'I really can't, I'm on my way out.'
'Where.'
'Herbie Hancock.'
'Oh I didn't know you were seeing someone already.'
'I'm not, I'm just going to a concert at the South Bank.'
'Is he nice?'
'Who?'
'The man - what did you say his name was - Herbie?'
'No, I'm going to see him. He's a jazz musician.'
'Really, how interesting, how on earth did you meet him?'
I gave up.
And then I arrived at the bar at the NFT to discover that instead of another thrilling night with three divorced women and a small speck of a man on a distant stage, Eva had brought along a man she met on the internet who came up to my waist and had such a strong handshake that I couldn't wiggle my fingers for the next hour. That would have been fine if the other divorcee hadn't remembered half way through the concert that she hated jazz and left. This is how I found myself sitting at the end of a row on my own next to a spare seat while Eva and her internet date sat on the other side.
Around me everyone was stroking their imaginary beards and looking thoughtful. Damn it - fifty quid to be a gooseberry when I could have been in North London having dinner with a spare man! And of course the hostess will never, ever ask me again because now she thinks I'm dating a small, black, sixty-eight year-old, musical genius called Herbie Hancock.
I wonder if he's busy on the 13th of December - my friend is having another gallery opening.
