Tuesday 26^th January 2010

Have you heard of Chris Ofili? He won the Turner Prize with paintings made of elephant poo. Now he’s got a retrospective at the Tate.

You know what that means, don’t you? A Private View – at the Tate. Of a living artist. The absolute highest.

The Multis will be there. Of course, they buy art – as well as loving it. Trenton’s gallery are involved. Don’t ask how. You remember Trenton – massive pecs, trainer four times a week, taxi to work every day, additional apartment in Nice, just back from six-week Christmas tour, strapping and sweet Southern boyfriend, Karol.

What a thing the Multis are having to get this exhibition opened! On Sunday night there was a private dinner for 140, yesterday a back-up dinner at the Tate, tonight the opening reception, followed by another private party, then on Thursday a breakfast reception and curator tour of the show.

Almost like one of these modern weddings!

But what about Adrian Edge? Was I to be used? You may recall, I am not always.

No, is the simple answer. And I haven’t £250,000 spare to buy an emergency artwork at Trenton’s gallery which is one pathway to an invitation.

What to do? What to do? Pushing and shoving for admittance has not been my habit. I have always gazed from afar.

But why not change? Why not be one who is there rather than one who is not?  Also, what a perfect retrenchment device! Costs nothing to angle for an invitation. Only the bus fare to go – if successful.

I have another reason to diversify at the moment, to begin again. There is something I have been concealing from you. You may have noticed a certain absence in the past few months. You may have been wondering….

So off I went. I applied to Lord Arrowby, as you recall, a collector. I sent messages to remotely known millionaires who are friends on Facebook. I tried Eddie Sedgewick. I made new friends on Facebook in the hope…  Was anyone going? Take me too! I enquired of Joshua Baring, Robert Nevil’s young friend, who has connections. He made calls. It looked promising. Soon the Multis were whirled into the vast machinery of my social ambition. The Photographer Multi is a champion e-mailer. No link is left unlinked. He forged into the heart of the Tate. It didn’t look promising. There were so many RSVPs; it was to be an intimate occasion. They’d be in touch. Joshua Baring’s trail had also gone cold. Days went by. No word. My Nicolo Ceschi Berrini suitlette and Jil Sander grey shirt with black trim were never to get off their hangers. I was to remain at home with the marmalade vat and the Multi’s Stilton rind (still going, by the way, and being lined up for another soup for tomorrow’s Bridge night).

Finally, at last, an e-mail. Just like that.  I couldn’t believe it.  Name at the door. Millbank entrance. Delighted that you can join. Then just this morning, extra thrill – party afterwards at the Bloomsbury Ballroom. Security very tight. Be sure to take the invitation.

All the Multis’ doing

I must dash upstairs to frock up