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The first one of those calls I remember was when I was about thirteen. It came in the middle of the night, and I’m not sure if it was the phone or my mother’s scream that woke me up. M., the son of family friends, had been killed in a car wreck. The next one of those calls came through to me on the ladies’ dresses checkout desk at Burdines department store. I was working there over the summer after my sophomore year in college, saving up money for a fall semester abroad. It was my friend D., calling to tell me our friend A. had been murdered. Then there was the call on Monday night. I didn’t answer the phone when it rang because I was washing dishes. When I was done I checked the phone and saw there was a message from S. I figured she was calling about our planned upcoming weekend visit and called her back without listening to the message first, which is why it was even more of a shock when she told me that DDB was dead, shot himself on Friday.

I’ve written about DDB on this blog before, most recently about his instruction in making dry and extra dry martinis. He was one of the characters from English central casting — posh, mustachioed, and seeming to belong to a bygone empire era even though he was too young (sixty-ish) for that to be possible — that we met at the Boylestone village pub. He drank too much, but I never thought much about it because he never seemed drunk. Rather he seemed perpetually charming, always armed with a story like the one about the time he took a business trip to Texas and got such a kick out of the way the locals pronounced “Hereford” (as in cattle).

I was only an acquaintance of DDB’s and I have no idea why he committed suicide; as far as I know there was no concern amongst those closest to him, no note of explanation. The only conclusion I have is the obvious one — these were the actions of a man in despair. And I feel a little bit ashamed at how I fell for his charismatic public front hook, line, and sinker. It was such a perfect fit with my romanticized version of the English countryside that I had no motivation to see anything deeper in him.

Wednesday morning I watched as the first of the Chilean miners was rescued live on the morning news. It made me a little teary and before I knew it I was heaving full blown sobs for DDB.

I’ll miss him, and his yellow socks.

Yesterday I dragged husband along to a wedding show at Bleinheim Palace, birthplace of Winston Churchill. Armed with my Vista Print virtually free business cards in their complimentary silver effect case, I was there to introduce myself to the world as a wedding planner. Never mind I had been interviewing rather successfully for a new corporate and totally unrelated job in the background during the last week. I wasn’t going to let what might be get in the way of what was: my new found entrepreneurial enthusiasm.

I hadn’t done anything as bold or expensive as renting a booth, nor was I aspiring to sign up any brides up on the spot. My low key strategy was just to introduce myself to various vendors and suss out the competition. Decked out in cashmere and pearls, what I imagined to be wedding planner power dressing, I approached the first vendor. He was manning a booth that provided undercover singers and musicians ala that great wedding scene in Love Actually where a choir materializes in the church balcony singing “All You Need Is Love” and various musicians pop up in the congregation to riff at the appropriate points. Booth man was gay and charming and pedalling a great idea. We exchanged cards. I was off to a terrific start!

Next up was a florist from Oxfordshire. I complimented their floral designs and introduced myself while discreetly slipping the booth lady a business card. “Oh, let me introduce you to the owner,” she said while leaning over to tap an elegant fifty-ish lady on the shoulder. Power florist lady turned around then proceeded to size me up while we made small talk, finally asking me where I got my flowers from. “A florist in Cheltenham,” I lied then immediately made an excuse to move to the next booth. Thankfully it was cake. I needed some sugar. All this networking was exhausting.

My tour around the remaining booths was uneventful except for observing that photographers are not good at small talk. Husband and I strolled outside to take a look around the rather grand grounds. We were turned back at a gate which required a ticket purchase to go any further. I then watched a fifty-something lady from the power florist school of women blag her way into the grounds on a flimsy excuse of needing to look around a venue inside the “pay for entry” enclosure. She was, you see, a wedding planner.

My entrepreneurial try-out is not going as well as hoped. I’ve just finished my routine – a bit shaky but I didn’t drop any pom poms – only to be upstaged by a back-flipping, toe-touching professional.