Do I have too many friends?

Can one have too many friends? I asked myself this question as we prepared yet another dinner party for ten people, at which I ate and drank far too much as usual. Forget bikini body – it’s kaftan time in Saint Tropez at the moment for me. We’ve been at our villa in the South of France for nearly three months this summer and during that time we have hosted 34 guests, who stayed anywhere between three days and two weeks. We’ve hosted two daughters, one son, in-laws and cousins, several dozen friends and one baby granddaughter, and they have kept Percy and me on our social toes. But we really truly enjoy it, as most of the time the majority of our guests know how to behave in other people’s homes.

However, some most definitely do not. Throughout the three decades of tenure in my quiet and beautiful Provençal villa, there have been a few standout bad-mannered oafs who will never be invited back. One memorable ex-friend arrived from New York with a duffel bag. Emptying it on to the kitchen floor, out spilled a grubby selection of shorts, socks and shirts. ‘See that they get washed and ironed,’ he demanded of my minimal staff, then poured himself a large serving of red wine into a glass and proceeded to head down to the pool. ‘Uh, sorry, but we only use plastic glasses down by the pool,’ I called after him. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t spill it,’ he called back insouciantly over his shoulder. Half an hour later, I discovered him lying in the pool on a lilo, nursing the wine and chatting away to a nubile young guest, regaling her with exaggerated tales of New York life. ‘If that red wine spills, or heaven forfend the glass breaks, we’ll have to empty the pool to clean it,’ I admonished.