Thursday 4^th February 2010

Poor Little Rich Gays are ablaze, even though it’s still early February. On Tuesday, as I told you, Dhiren Dutta launched his book, next week Ariel, the Sculptor of Water, has an Opening, Harry Rollo, as always, is everywhere – Hollywood Bowl, Radio City Music Hall, Madison Square Garden; now it’s giant powder puffs and musical instruments made of stone –  and tonight Eddie Sedgewick launches.

I’ve had to lie down.

Let’s start with Tuesday. I was almost too weak to frock, but, once in Cork Street, in the Nicolo Ceschi Berrini black suitlette (which is bedding down well; doesn’t feel too small provided I remain standing: 30 per cent reduction at The Library) and gorgeous luxury white shirt by Balenciaga (unbelievable: spelt it right first time.50 per cent off at Harrods) AND the Prada Red Early Spring coat (good buy: half price), I was reborn.

First of all, Gillian Ayres with Reggie Cresswell, the Ghanaian Ceramicist, and Prince Dmitri Hersov. Do you know her? Painter. 80. Bright and bold. Lot of vigour in the brushwork. Not everybody’s tea’s cup. Seems to have whirled out about a million paintings since Christmas. Invigorating all round. The Prince wants to buy, but too late. Red dots appearing from nowhere by the second. £65,000 a throw. The audience mostly elderly. Don’t get out of the way.

Then on, with Reggie, to the book party. There is the thrill of arriving, privately as it were, with a world figure. People were looking. Dhiren has written a novel about a girl who, rising from the slums of Calcutta, sets out to tidy up India (as we know, it needs it. I’ve never been) but comes to rest an Anglican nun at Simla with her own TV show. I’ve started it. It’s fab. You must have it.

Oh the fabrics. At the party, I mean. Indians, you see. Dhiren himself was balancing on his shoulders with superb skill 10 metres of finest pashmina said to have cost a billion rupees. Some princes (not our Prince, though) were in floor-length Hyderabad coats. That’s what I call them. Dear little Arjun Bose, our favourite pocket Indian (does this sound racist?), was in a dear, little Indian print shirt of grey and blue. And, in the corner, Reeta Chakrabarti, of TV!

Then, the White European Ladies – Susan Goodyear, the Booker Winner, with her private bottle of champagne, speaking from deep within the rules of the Sunday Times Short Story competition of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s intervention therein and encompassing in the process a number of early Archbishops. Blanche Spain, possessed of the most esoteric vocabulary of any woman in England, was regnant in Issey Mikaye. ‘Think of the tiny-ness of the iron that could travel this goffering,’ she was saying. Do you know, ‘goffering’? I do. Her brilliant wing brushed the company with diamonds. She asked me about my shampoo.

Great glory. I work through to Robert Nevil!  Back from a month at Calcutta. Not shadow of former, wrecked, hacking, shrunk, as I had feared….Really looked quite well.  Sebastian Archer, partner of RN, also, after two months’ unexplained absence in New York, glowing – liposuction? Deep-peel treatment? He had someone awfully famous to sing at his 50th birthday party in New York, you know. Sister of a Rufus, I think.

Joshua Baring, so young but so full of inside information, was in an outstanding Burberry jacket acquired at an exclusive ‘family’ sale for £60, down from £900. Here is another kind of sale we didn’t know about. You remember a few weeks ago the ‘trunk sale’ burst into our lives, as a notion at least.

Over all presided the publisher, Helmut Mutti, beaming expectantly as if an after-lights-out dorm feast were about to get out of hand.