Just another mad night out at the local bad-food gastropub

We were enjoying our evening at the overpriced gastropub until a woman in a dark uniform appeared at our table. She didn’t introduce herself or explain why she was there, and the first thought that entered my head was that we were being arrested.

It was partly that the woman was extremely well built and wearing a navy gabardine jacket and trousers. But it was also because we were with Anthony.

I looked across at the builder boyfriend’s wayward friend, a tanned, blond, spiky-haired estate agent who is a dead ringer for Shane Warne. He was spooning French onion soup into his mouth in between downing vodka shots and I thought: ‘Oh no, what has Anthony done now?’

Anthony’s office is just down the road from the BB’s work yard so they have lunch together in the caff. As well as selling houses, he is fond of telling people he’s a qualified hairdresser, a chef of some standing, an artist and a potter. He talks in a stream of consciousness, saying exactly the first thing that comes into his head, which fazes people who aren’t prepared for his unfiltered repartee.

On this occasion, we had made up a foursome with Anthony and a female friend of mine, who happens to be a television personality, and were seated by the window having dinner.

Anthony was getting stuck into showing us iPhone photos of his pots and paintings while trying to convince our celebrity friend to let him cut her hair, right there and then, although he’d left his best scissors in the Caribbean, and off he went telling that story.

The evening was no more than mildly all over the place, and we weren’t being especially loud. So why was a police officer standing by our table? And why was she hugging our celebrity friend?

As she did so, I could see there was no insignia on her suit, so the next thought that occurred to me was what Anthony innocently blurted out: ‘Excuse me? Are you the bouncer?’

The woman stopped gushing pleasantries to our famous friend and gave him a withering stare.