Tuesday 2^nd February 2010

My architect, Bruce MacBain, finally managed to lure Lloyd Bunster, the personal trainer, to dinner on Saturday. He is so rare and elusive that, even once he has arrived, it is still touch and go whether he is actually there, if you get my drift. Caution is advised. Lloyd spends 40 hours a week in the gym. You can imagine the temptation. But advances are not welcome from all but the select few and certainly not from slackers who’ve cut corners on the bench press. But as it happened he was rather sleepy from having been in bed with a man all night and most of the day. He said to Bruce with strange certainty: ‘This is my fifth time at your place,’ which showed a different side. Why was he counting? How many more times does he hope for before death?

I was thinking the other day: considering Poor Little Rich Gay diarising challenges, there are some even close friends I might only see another twenty or thirty times, depending of course on how many more years….

Speaking of gyms, you must all be dying to know how my new body is getting along. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before. Well, I don’t think the Multis’ Stilton rind did me any good. I had to finish it up, of course, for reasons of economy. Last week I managed to go to the gym three times in one week for the first time in nine months of membership (clubs: The Garrick, Fitness First), if going the third time exactly one week after the first counts. That was last night.

Today, I am wrecked beyond belief. Not being on speakers with a certain person (have you guessed? Our steady bickering of 40 years suddenly has become unsteady) doesn’t help. Such a strain to keep it up. I think I had aimed to be re-thought and re-made in body for Italy last summer. For some bathing opportunity at any rate. Now it’ll have to wait for Italy next summer.

I must tell you about my visit to Val. It is a miracle. I think he might resurrect, sipping  merely at a glass of wine.  But now I am required to struggle into frockage. Private View for Gillian Ayres with Reggie Cresswell (was he at Chris Ofili last week?  Must have been) and Prince Dmitri Hersov, then on to book launch of Dhiren Dutta, friend of dear, precious Robert Nevil, who has finally been returned half-dead from Calcutta but may not be well enough to attend.

I feel like the first Lady Curzon, who was an invalid. When Vicerene of India she would be heaved from her bed, frocked up, inserted into a carriage, driven to the banquet, carried to her place where she managed a teaspoon of brandy, then dragged home again.

So brave. She did not live long.