Wednesday 3^rd November 2010

Today is the 53^rd birthday of Anthony Mottram, first met by me at the housemaster’s introductory tea-party in 1970, presently semi-estranged and pretending not to be in London.

The Photo Multi has just summoned me to the Ivy, last minute, at 8.30. Beatrice Cantor is to be there, after the triumphant sale of her paintings at Sotheby’s.

But I’m only just back from lunch at Soho House with Ed Jasper, the bed linen expert, and, before that I was barely out of bed (bed linen not as advised by Ed, sadly) from Arbutus Restaurant  last night with Conor Cadoux, who is back in London from Brussels, where he has been running the Euro Parl.

Conor showed me a schedule for refurb of his flat. £50,000. It said ‘Stelrads’. I struck that out. Stelrad is that bog-standard radiator which wrecks any room where it is found. Monza is the only possibility in radiators. Even the Gay Mother’s got them. Bruce MacBain, my personal architect, was too busy and Conor had to get someone else. The result: Stelrads. Also single layer of plasterboard for internal walls. Bruce always specifies two, with stuffing between.

I saw to that as well.

This morning, before Soho House,  I went to Westminster Abbey. I assumed that my life would pass without ever visiting this place on account of its being a common tourist destination. But Ed Jasper had the brilliant idea of a private verger-led tour. On arrival a bitter, grey person at the desk disclaimed all knowledge but Ed shrieked, ‘I’ve paid hundreds of pounds.’ The Abbey might not normally be a place where money talks but this time it was.

Twice we were ushered beyond ropes where ordinary members of the public are not admitted. At St Edward the Confessor’s Shrine we were prayerful and respectful and exclusive.

The big thing at the Abbey is tombs. Henry V was concerned to achieve maximum grandeur. He was the one with the awful hair and the bows and arrows. From the hair you wouldn’t have known he had this aspect.

On the whole I was rather against the Abbey. Gloomy, cluttered-up, self-appointed throbbing heart of the Nation, small fun, the whole place stuck in about 1386. Dust on the curly bits didn’t help. Poor Little Rich Gays somehow not welcome nor likely to welcome in turn. In the quire, Ed Jasper interrupted the verger. ‘There’s chewing gum under these seats!’ he squealed. Verger mortified.

Now, I must dash and get into training  and another outfit for this Ivy dinner.

Loathed Stelrad