The Storm

And then it was the turn of Vince Cable's The Storm - this time held at the Liberal Club in Whitehall, which has an enormous sweeping oval marble staircase that loops upwards for several floors like a swirling lasoo at a wild west show.  It's impossible to come down the steps without feeling like you're doing a Tara and you're going to 'worry about it tomorrow'.  This, however, is not the case on the way up because the ladies restroom is at the very, very top of the staircase, and then again up yet another flight of smaller, garrett-like stairs which makes you aware of what an afterthought women were in the design of the building.  In other words you run up them like Cinderella at five past midnight and you swan down them like May West, relieved that you made it.

The launch itself was held in a vast reception room with three arches skipping along the back wall, tiled in beige, biscuit and green glazed tiles, somewhat like a very plush station on the Northern Line, with carpetting.  Vince made a cleverly self-deprecating speech and we sold all our copies of the book.  All went well until I unwisely helped myself to one of the snacks in a little glass bowl while I was talking to Vince Cable's charming younger brother.

You know that feeling when you've eaten a crisp and you can't quite swallow it properly and you need to cough, but you know, absolutely and without doubt, that if you start coughing you will never, ever stop, and also if you attempt to speak, then only more coughing, possibly with tears, inept attempts at the Heimlich manoeuvre and embarrassing spluttering, will ensue?  Well that's what happened.

I mimed that I had to go off in the direction of the bar and walked away without speaking.  I don't think I'm very good at miming, and Mr Cable Junior may just have thought I was a rude person who, tiring of the conversation, walked off with a theatrical flourish to get another alcoholic beverage.

I approached MD who was debonairely talking to a man in an equally debonaire dark banker's suit.

'Ah Marion, can I just introduce you to...'

'I'm choking,' I whispered, trying to breath through my nose and not disturb my throat that was about to spasm...'

'So you are he said calmly and stepped aside (now that's what I call a gentleman!) to let me approach the bar...  which was deserted.  There were no glasses.  No wine.  No servers.

I turned and saw a waitress disappear into a side room so I scuttled after her and followed her to the firmly closed door.  I banged on it.  Hard.

One of our editors was standing nearby.  'Marion, can I just introduce you to Vince's son...'  she said of the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life, while I stood there, red faced, still trying to stifle the explosive coughing fit.

'I'm choking.  I need a drink.' I stammered, sounding like an alcoholic after the bar had shut, but was saved when a waitress opened the door of the antechamber a crack and peered round it as though I was trying to sell her religion.

'Water.  I need water.  I'm choking.'  I gasped.

''Okay,' she nodded and then vanished again.  I slumped against the door frame.  Take it easy.  Breathe.  Don't talk.  Don't cough.  Don't think of it.  Relax your throat.  I said to myself.

Ten years passed.  I grew my hair out and became a silver vixen.  I had three grandchildren.  I remarried and moved to Antibes... and still the ruddy waitress didn't come back.  Had I actually been choking as opposed to merely having some annoying snack crumbs wedged in my windpipe, I would have died.

Just as my grandchildren went to university, the door opened again and the waitress handed me a glass of water with a slice of lemon in it on a silver tray with a doily on it.

I slugged it back.

I lived.  Yeah.  It was a Lib Dem miracle. Though I then had to go to the Ladies' Room and compose myself.

I may be some time...