Thursday 5th December 2013

At Peter Acharya and Ned Czernowski’s party I survived well in a spray-on outfit by Zara. Somehow I had the strength for conversation. In fact I was radiant. As Enid Blyton said: ‘You’ll never get anything back unless you give in the first place.’ Robert Nevil, Bruce McBain and the Multis gave huge pleasure to Laura Malcolm with their cheek and bizarrerie. I had conversation with Matt Driver, Laura’s thrusting husband, except that we philosophised on the ghastliness of work, what a mistake it is. ‘There’s only so much interest I can take in a new yoghurt campaign,’ Matt said. So draining the office life – the low-level bickering, the boredom that drives round the same complaints about certain colleagues for years and years. Much better to stay at home and take the occasional lucrative project for diversion.

Except of course that work is vital to the Poor Little Rich Gay who gives more to it than anything else. Perhaps to have worked is the ideal position for the Poor Little Rich Gay.

Otherwise I was thick with Philip Vitrine, who ran the Elizabeth Arden salon in London for years. He told me that new products to be taken internally for the face are now available. And they’re fabulous. His skin at 60 is superb and he hasn’t started on the pills yet.

Of course work on the face is worthwhile. Of course products work.

Oh I was buoyed up.

Then on Monday I took the Russian Ball at the Royal Albert Hall with Arabella von Gardendoor. She was my plus-one, having been up at Ford with the Blond Multi. It was a Dainty Lady TV assignment. At first the PR people tried to kettle us in the lobby but we bust out and got into our box with champagne. There was a young man of Prince Harry’s age. He said he was from the Belgravia Residents’ Gazette. Very good hair, a Brideshead feel. ‘What’s your story?’ said Arabella. It was a bold approach to one just met. If there were any false starts they lasted on more than 10 seconds. Within 30 we were fully bonded and hearing everything: he’s got three girlfriends but he was hurt twice in the past. He began in finance, then moved to the Marines but got kicked out because some pals were having a fight in the King’s Road, he was nearby and found by the Police to have a picnic knife in his bag. It took 8 years or months to clear his name. The knife was legit. He’d been using it while camping in Ubezbecistan. Then he took the path to ordination but didn’t care for it after a year. Finally he was reincarnated as editor of the Belgravia Residents’ Gazette. Emerging from a lake at a grand house party in the country, a girl who’d had the hots for him for some time happened to be nearby. ‘I was in boxers,’ he explained. He became involved with the girl in some way. Arabella grew concerned that he didn’t eat. Many exquistions were being offered in the Box. He self-bought a vodka. ‘I’m having neat vodka,’ he said. Then it was departure for the British Fashion Awards after-party.

We couldn’t have loved it more.

The ball was fabulous too, once you’d overlooked the speeches about how it was to commemorate ‘400 years since Romanovs’. ‘I’m reminded of a Fascist rally,’ I said to Arabella. ‘Didn’t Sir Oswald Moseley hold rallies at the Royal Albert Hall.’

The best bit was the Quadrille, open to all, with its Russian kicking steps in one part. I was in floods for the Old Russia.

The debutantes were a dream. The tulle!  Yards and yards of tulle! A misty dream of tulle.

Tickets were minimum price £470. Nobody had a fat stomach.

Greatnesses Gain for the Russian Ball at the Royal Albert Hall

The Debutantes are Introduced to Society at the Russian Hall at the Royal Albert Hall

The Magic of Debutantes

The Ball Committee and Dox Priest from that Church at the End of the Raised Section of the M4 at Chiswick

The General Scene: the Russian Ball at the Royal Albert Hall: Min. Price £470