At Last I Penetrate the Ivy Club But Shatter «

At Last I Penetrate the Ivy Club But Shatter

Friday 29^th October 2010

I crashed Maggi Hambling’s launch there. Robert Nevil, author of the famous History of the Pony Club, one of my oldest friends, was actually invited. She’s done a book about her Aldeburgh Scallop, which has caused such outrage, to her delight.

Well, you needn’t worry about the Ivy Club. It’s horrible. Honed white marble, sleek mirrors and glass, pink neon writing by Tracy Emin, then, to keep up the Ivy theme, the odd window with lead lights, a dab of oak panelling.

It’s not even mad.

Robert Nevil was busy with his brainy book friends. ‘Do you know Adrian Edge?’ he said. ‘He writes a blog.’ They all looked rather cross, the way book people do. ‘It’s quite good. Uneven, of course.’ They all say this. Everything’s uneven or twenty minutes too long, if a play or film.

Naughty, gleeful Robert Nevil was actually pawing the ground and his tail was whisking. He’s turning into a bad pony who would surely get the better of any pony behaviour expert, even if from Harley Street.

My mirror crashed straight out of its frame.

I forgot to mention that last week in York the Gay Mother revived the hair transplant story. In the 60s, when I was a kitchen (or child), an appallingly greasy individual in a very brown mackintosh appeared in our garden one evening. He was from a hair transplant empire. I’d seen an ad in the newspaper and thought it would be perfect for the gay father. He could have had that dolly-head look. But it was just supposed to be a brochure, not a visit.

The way the Gay Mother’s going on, if called upon to deliver my funeral oration, this episode will be the central feature.

The salesman told the Gay Mother that it was usually daughters they heard from.

Excruciating. Even now.

Still, at least, I was showing early signs of ordering and shopping which is good.

I am led to wonder why it is that confidence is ever granted. With all the criticism, failure and Poor Little Rich Gay perfectionism, the natural and rational state of being is near-destroyed. Any brighter mood is simply forgetting.

Anyway, I have never much cared for confidence, as a quality. Where it persists it is a pestilence.

Now, one rather thrilling thing that happened was that Yolanda Sonnabend, born 1935, leading theatre designer, liked my black suit by Nicolo Ceschi Berrini, the one I’ve been worried was too small and short in the jacket.

So, despite the above, as Maria said in The Sound of Music, when God closes a door, he opens a window somewhere else.

Also, tip for ladies in the evening – important indoor coats were being worn this season. See graphs below.