LAST week we were invited to a charity supper titled ‘Pink Plates’ at Moro in Exmouth Market, London, raising funds to fight breast cancer. We took advantage of the reassuringly expensive train fair, went up early and took in The Hockney exhibition at Tate Britain. That was a trip down memory lane, from work in the 50s through to his contemporary ‘Four Seasons’ video montage. It’s an exquisitely serene piece of work, the result of strapping nine video cameras to the outside of a van, set at different angles and driving slowly down the same couple of hundred yards of tree lined farm track in Yorkshire in each of the seasons. The finished ‘films’ were displayed on the four walls of a cube room, which clearly mesmerised the abundant audience. It would be a great thing to have in hospitals, full of beauty, calm and majesty. A seat at the throne of nature.

Onwards to Moro where we met up with our generous hosts and piled into the restaurant along with a multitude of very excited diners for fizz and canapes. Samantha Clark had brought in a stellar line up of celebrity, female chefs to help out on the evening including Thomasina Miers, Angela Hartnett, Margot Henderson and Skye Gyngell. The food was astonishingly superb needless to say, and sharing tables meant we started the evening with six friends and ended up with about 18.

At an appropriate moment, I nipped outside for a ‘post coitus’ as people of a certain age might refer to it, and sat myself down to reflect on every morsel we had devoured. Lo and behold, sat on the next table was the legend that is Fergus Henderson, he of St John’s restaurant in Smithfield and culinary hero of most of the food industry. He was sat with a friend chatting but I couldn’t resist going over, shaking his hand and worshipping at the shrine, so to speak. He seemed absolutely charming I thought as I returned to my seat, unlike his chum who just chipped in with a ‘sort yer shoes out mate’. He obviously didn’t see the irony of teaming Green Flash with Margaret Howell and Comme des Garcon.

I later discovered that the brute in question was none other than Suggs. Had I realised at the time, I would have quipped; ‘sort out yer baggy trousers mate’ not to mention the rest of your sad repertoire of Chas and Dave covers that is the tired legacy of Madness. Afterthought is the breeding ground of wit after all. Maybe he was just a bit annoyed that I didn’t recognise him.