Thursday 1^st April 2010

Dhiren Dutta, who is having such a success with his novel about lack of hygiene in India (and elsewhere, as it turns out – my God, it shows the underbelly, migrant workers, sprout picking. Very good. Better in many ways than White Tiger), had a highly original cake and wine party at 8.30 in the evening.  It was his birthday. Not at all Indian. None of those grubby little sweet paste things but meringue, Victoria sponge, muffin, all made by Dhiren in person. He and his partner have transported to a rented flat in London’s Pimlico district while their kitchen is being re-done. Isn’t that fuck-off and grand? They’ve got their cat with them.

Dhiren is new in my life, which is thrilling. I didn’t think there’d be anyone new after fifty.

Helmut Mutti, the publisher, minus girlfriend, confides that intimacy was rife amongst the boys at his prep and public (that’s junior and senior boarding schools if you’re US or foreign). ‘Older and younger?’ I ask. ‘Sex slaves? Abusive?  Masters involved.’ Apparently not. His eyes twinkle and sparkle delightfully. Was he embroiled? Who knows. But now for sure he is straight. He came out as such later during Arjan Bose’s great outpouring about the clap clinic (read on). ‘I’m straight,’ he said. It was an intriguing reversal. Twenty years ago in a social setting someone might confess: ‘I’m gay and I’m glad,’ while those around cast their eyes down.

Robert Nevil very much to the fore, mostly with glass thrust out for a refill. He is in between gruelling bouts of the London Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, about which we will be hearing. Blanche Spain, the jewelled novelist, also, chiselling a very fine groove. I couldn’t get near enough for content but I know she was soaring.

The real sensation was Arjan Bose, the tiny Indian doctor friend of Robert Nevil’s (even smaller than the latter if that were possible),who lodges in Frankie-Doreen Gunn and Giles Ullerston’s basement flat. Known mainly for his stunning Indian fabrics teamed with Top Man. Rarely speaks but doesn’t need to. Awfully handsome. Well, suddenly completely in his stride re: the clap clinic where he is presently serving. Big audience on the sofa, including frightening Indian woman novelist and Dhiren’s ginger cat, which was resting on a chair nearby.

I’d heard from Robert Nevil that Arjan had had trouble locating the cervix, women in the hosp queuing up for him to practise on. Now he’s moved on to men, mostly gay. They’re pouring in, claiming to be having regular sex with three or four partners. When examined they get hard-ons. ‘I haven’t got a penis,’ the frightening Indian woman novelist exclaims with fierce pride. The older ones are confessional: ‘I’ve been naughty,’ they say. The younger ones are more brazen. Poor Arjan is bewildered and a bit depressed: ‘What a revelation! Is this how relationships are?’

It would be fascinating if it were true – and rather Poor Little Rich Gay.

Of course some of the patients are attractive. As their doctor, he has their phone numbers. But he must be professional and remote. He can hardly call up and say, ‘How’s your clamidia? Do you fancy a date?’

I heard once that midwives are professional-group-most-likely-to-be-single. You can see why. Only absolutely shit man likely to be met in circs of the birthing room. Maybe clap doctors are the second most likely to be single?

Anyway, at the end of all this, our host is suddenly manifest, as a face, with teeth bared, from behind the sofa. ‘I hate that cat,’ he hisses. ‘I want to ring its neck.’ But he loves the cat, which is long-haired and quite elderly. I’m sure of it.