Monday 16th January 2012

I know you’ve been clinging on, clutching, clawing at the cliff edge, tearing your nails: what happened, what happened re: Lord Arrowby, my part-time love interest, at Reggie Cresswell’s New Year’s Eve party? But since then ‘The Iron Lady’ swept in (Mrs Thatcher: it’s complicated to explain why she’s important to Poor Little Rich Gays), after which I dined at Kai, Mayfair with the Multis; last Thursday we took Seth Vaughan’s Nude Art Show at Wimbledon (internecine strife behind the scenes there), then yesterday I lunched with Lady Carmichael, the Blond Multi’s mother, in one outfit but dined at Shoreditch House after Harry Rollo’s astonishing evening performance in another.

Except it wasn’t really a performance; Harry Rollo re-created or created for the first time perhaps the world. Nominally the theme was The Creation of the World. Some audience members were so devastated or uplifted or perhaps both or not knowing which. This is Harry’s genius in his performances: when does one part end and another begin? Can you really be sure? It’s all so taut and balancing on a wire. The first birds and fishes were lights and water bubbles in tubes dancing in patterns of fantastic beauty, on the verge of, but holding back from fever and frenzy. Then there were the tremendous waves of crude oil, threatening but magnificent, and, I may be imagining it, the whiff of crude oil too.

Afterwards we were a table of World class names at Shoreditch House. Reggie Cresswell, the Ghanaian ceramicist, couldn’t take anything crunchy because of his tooth. My other neighbour saw Boris Johnson jogging near Pompeii years ago. I’m always seeing him on his bike near my Official Home, rather than Pompeii, sometimes with grey school underwear showing.

This is the thing: even when you’re world class, there are other greatnesses you can’t quite reach. The tenor from Covent Garden was delightfully intimate and I was thrilled to be reunited with Stephan Jäger, the international organist and DJ, not seen for nearly two years. He says he’s got a new piece for me. He’s going to take the Wigmore Hall and give it – but there’s no organ there. It’ll have to be the Albert Hall. At airports, between organ perfs, he enlivens the time by seeing how much value he can add to his face from the tester tubes and pots at the cosmetics counter. Highest score was 200 euros from an 800 euro sample moisturiser.

Stephan boarded with his face boosted in value by 200 euros.

I walked Finn Magnus, the hot boy doc, to his bus stop. He said he’d been to a perf (somehow a porn star came into it) of a work by one of the  Shoreditch House guests, a person of great notoriety in our nation not uninvolved with American trash TV. He’d been with Lord Arrowby.

Well, Lord Arrowby, as you know he’s my part-time love interest: at Reggie’s party he made a concession. I’ll have to tell you about it. Rather alarming. But what I’m thinking, among other things, is how would it be if Lord Arrowby were brought to the belief that he could save me? That somehow I needing rescuing?

He’d launch the life-boats, he really would.