Uri Geller is bidding for fifty soup spoons as slurped from by society’s finest mouths here at the Savoy. Competition is fierce, especially from a tiny lady in a vast fur coat (there are whole species of fur here). “I have £300 on the phone,” announces the auctioneer, dapper in black tie. Uri’s hand flies up like Dr Strangelove. “£350!’ The old lady retreats but the phone bidder holds on. The hammer falls on £400 and everyone’s favourite psychic has his spoons.

“I first stayed at the Savoy in 1972 and it holds memories,” he says, high on spoons. Suddenly he’s dragging me from the sale room into the hotel foyer in search of a metal surface. Squeezing us into the legendary revolving door he rubs a spoon against it. Amazingly, it bends. “I worked with Dali—now this is art. I am an artist. Savoy spoons are special.”

Yesterday was the last day of the three-day auction and the cars parked outside revealed who is inside. Mud-spattered Volvos are ready to haul furniture back to the country. Bonus-laden City boys fall from Porsches determined to blow a few thou. Tourists, as ever, look lost. Everyone wants a bargain. Including me. But it’s the Savoy—not a Travelodge. There are no bargains.

I want 80 assorted ice buckets — don’t know why. The estimate is £50. Bidding starts at £200 leaving me behind and selling for £1,200 to a man who looks like he drinks champagne for breakfast. Fifty small toast racks (‘perfect Christmas cards holders”) fetch £1,500. It’s 5pm. There are only 500 lots left! I must have something—a cushion plumped by Maria Callas, a mirror looked in by Richard Harris, a chair lounged in by Noel Coward.

Next up it’s 80 shot glasses. Somehow my arm is in the air. I am bidding and I can’t stop. Suddenly we’re at £120, £160, £180. I stop counting at £200. They must be mine! I NEED 80 shot glasses! The hammer falls! I’ve won! ‘Sold for £240 to the young man planning a big party!” Uri tips me a wink as I stagger upstairs to the American Bar for a shot of something steadying.

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