Saturday 1st September 2012

Actually I’m at the Côte, at Virgil Grayson’s Med-side, self-architect designed and gardened rare, rare enclave. I’ve not left the compound since Friday. The house is the finest, lightest casing of white and grey against a vast panorama of sea, sky and rocks. There’s been much drama: a full Mistral and then storms. From the open-plan living area you can see for 20 miles: absolute ringside seats. Two muscle men are here who this morning cycled to St Tropez and back in lycra. 60 kilometre round trip.

But on Tuesday I was stained in the Albert Hall. A mottling developed on the thighs of my new Helmut Lang slacks in a bone shade in the course of the day. Unbearable because I’ve bonded with them, they’re so tiny. But they’re faulty. Then underway for the Hall, what do I find but two actual marks, in addition.

Prince Dmitri Hersov and I took Figaro in the Glyndebourne Prom. The Prince was in the mood of the great rolling Steppe of his never-seen homeland. He said that money corrupts.Oh dear! Where does that leave Poor Little Rich Gays? Things are looking grim at the Accountancy firm. But at least his sister, Princes Irina, who, with her neighbours – all greatnesses, as it happens – suffered catastrophic parapet collapse in May, faces a manageable bill for repair.

Earlier that day, the Gay Mother said, ‘That’s not Prada.’  ‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s Zara.’ A white shirt with black collar and cuffs, teamed with those bone slacks.  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ ‘Oh nothing,’ the Gay Mother said hurriedly.

Rather odd, because the Christmas before last she said, ‘Is that Prada?’ As it happens it was, a plum knit.  Without pausing she said,  ‘St Francis of Assisi gave away all his clothes.’