Cherie's birthday party will go down in the annals of family history as one of the more memorable Booth events. Although the Saturday started in a normal, even subdued fashion.
After a visit to the National Art Gallery and lunch at Fortnum and Mason's, we walked back to Downing Street and decided a nap was in order before getting ready for Cherie's party. So far, so sedate - however, things were to change radically by the evening.
Two of Tony's other daughters, Jenia and Bronwen, flew in from New York to be at their sister's party and we organised to meet and take them to Chequers with us. The traffic around 5.30 p.m. was horrendous, but we managed to get through London and on to the M40 without too many problems. We made good time - my map-reading was excellent as usual, despite anything Tony might say.
We were just talking about how much we were looking forward to seeing everyone when we ran into a police roadblock a couple of miles from Chequers. The pro-hunting lobby was protesting and blockading all the entrances. Jenia and Bronwen, having just witnessed the demonstrations that accompanied the Republican convention in New York, could not understand the delay.
While we were waiting in the car for the police to decide what to do next, a Land Rover carrying demonstrators approached from the direction of Chequers. Pulling up near to us they spotted Tony and a large, horse-faced woman screeched, "Oh look, it's Cherry's daddy!"
At that moment I fully understood what Oscar Wilde meant when he described hunting as the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable.
Recoiling back into the seat with horror, I was surprised to hear our New Yorkers crowing with delight. They had never encountered anyone like her and as Bronwen is an actor she decided to amuse herself attempting to mimic the woman. She did not however, despite all our efforts, manage to achieve quite the right pitch for the screech.
Eventually, the police asked us to go to a nearby village and wait in a car-park while a plan was devised. A group of aspirant partygoers formed and for a while we stood around chatting and laughing and getting in the party mood. We did not doubt for a minute we would get there at some point. After a while it started to rain and we took shelter in our cars.
I was by now starting to get slightly depressed about the state of my party frock - it was becoming increasingly crumpled. The occupants of our car were also starting to get hungry. Tony, rooting around in the glove compartment found an ancient tube of fruit gums.
Soon several car-loads of press photographers arrived in the car-park and started photographing partygoers through the windows of their cars. Our Irish number plate proved incredibly useful as it meant they didn't initially spot us. However, I decided not to wait for the inevitable, but to move off.
At that moment some of the protesters also arrived in cars and a tractor, but I haven't lived in Ireland for seven months for nothing. I'm no longer intimidated by tractors so, to frightened squeals in the back of the car - Tony was more stoic - I simply swerved around it.
Eventually, all 80 guests made it to Chequers - only an hour or so later than planned. Despite a difficult start to the evening it was a very good party. The band were excellent and as soon as they started to play Pretty Woman everyone hit the dance floor. I was surprised to see how many people were enthusiastic and able rock and rollers - including my husband who took to the floor with Cherie. He had the sore legs the next day to prove it.
Another notable aspect of the evening was the way the English social order was stood on its head. It was quite energising to realise the picket line formed by the hunting classes had been broken by Labour party supporters.
My Tony was, of course, thrilled. He didn't think he'd live to see the day.
sbooth@irish-times.ie
