Wednesday 27^th January 2010

I waited on the steps of Tate Britain for the Multis in the Berrini, Jil Sander and even the new Prada Red silver-grey early Spring coat, although it’s not early Spring. Oh the thrill of hurling forth from the home to such a function. I didn’t expect to know excitement of this kind again in my fifties.

Silly, I know.

No many limos drawing up actually. Ferocious security. Customs-style anxiety – would Adrian Edge actually be on the guest list after all? Drinks and fore-gathering at the junction under the dome. Wine glasses have to be slid out of strange slots on the tray held by staff. Olives to eat. Hordes and hordes, a few we know – Elsa Hodgeman, the Gertrude Stein de nos.., swathed in good grey wool, quite a few art students in those baseball boot things, older Art ladies, coloured in like Zandra Rhodes, looking as they are wearing the Art.

The Multis are full of the dinner held on Monday in the Gallery (now don’t get confused with the Sunday night dinner at Trenton’s gallery). They tell me I could have gone for a donation of only £2000. Note that everybody!  It’s something to aim for when the Kusama Retrospective opens next year at the Tate. The Multis didn’t know anybody but got friendly with an Indian collector couple. She said she’d wandered into Christie’s one day, intending to buy antiques, got into the wrong room and ended up with an Ofili for £600,000. The under-bider was ‘Nicholas’ – can you guess? Later ‘Nicholas’ came and thanked the Multis for their support.

Slightly at a loose end, we decide to actually go round the exhibition. Drinks not allowed, of course. Well, I’m sorry to say, we don’t awfully like it. Slightly takes the edge off the whole occasion. But at least we’ve got depth, we can range beyond champagne and canapés. Very decorative, beautifully made, but all the early ones with annoying lump of elephant dung (I know you’re meant to be bold and say ‘shit’ but I hate that word and elephants only eat grass and trees so their droppings actually inoffensive) stuck on. The Blond Multi says that the previous night’s dinner was Business Class, this is Economy.

Things look up when, before a more delightful picture belonging to the collection of Eileen Harris Norton with its poo piece largely sequined over, we run into Mark Wallinger (name!). Have a little riff wondering if the picture is made of lentils and could you eat it? Not the dung of course. Then I spy a colleague of Smallmeal’s (my arch enemy you recall), head of research in the landfill outfit, and wife. Wonder if they are under orders to cut me, but no, we speak, they are nice. I’m thinking: they won’t know Mark Wallinger. Wouldn’t it be rather glorious were I to be seen in further confab with ? I go on with the Multis into the later rooms, more and more puzzled by the art. And there they are, the Smallmeal colleague and wife, roaring away with…yes, that’s right…Mark Wallinger. Far more to say to him than to me. Tremendously intimate with…

In the final room, at last we see Chris Ofili himself, scrabbling on the floor trying to manage two tiny children. He is said to be a shy man, sweet in nature, who has moved to Trinidad to get away from all this. The flavour of the occasion begins to penetrate, the Economy aspect to drift away. The artist flew over a vast contingent of friends from Trinidad, which explains the presence of many male fabulousnesses in trilby hats. Superb women, from anywhere, become apparent, in difficult shift dresses, however unsuitable, spiked boots and massive weaponry of necklaces and earrings.

So I came not quite full circle. I’m wondering whether to say that nothing beat the frenzy of trotting down the road to catch the bus for the event, but that wouldn’t be quite right. Afterwards, over pizza at Pizza Express (£22 each but Chianti, so jaded today) with all the leading artists of the day, including the name dropped earlier, there was much talk of the show. It seems that we missed a lot. The Multis and I decide to seek enlightenment at the curator-led breakfast tour tomorrow morning at 8.30.

But I must manoeuvre to gain admission.

Art Lady on Escalator at Pimlico Tube Going to Ofili Opening at Tate Britain

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

Friday 22nd January 2010

I really can’t go on doing it all for you. You’ll have to think of how to slash costs for yourselves after this. Here are the last of my top tips.

Bullet points again!

• Comb through your attics. What can you sell on E-bay? There must be something. I’m trying to dispose of a glass table-top. I’ve never been near E-bay before. I’ve got 4 ‘watchers’ but no bids
• Edit the home – throwing away is free. Maybe you can sell or re-gift
• Economise by booking your Italian villa for the summer at once. Will cost more later and bargains will be gone. Only 25 per cent to pay now. The rest will appear somehow
• Book your summer flights; they’ll never be so cheap again
• Have no fear of the no-frills airlines. I’ve been invited to Cap Ferrat for dinner in June. I’m going by Easy from Luton. No-one will see me there on a Friday lunchtime
• What else can you get away with when no-one’s looking? Wear old clothes at home to preserve your best. But remember to change if you go near the window or outside
• Don’t eat  – unless you’ve got company, who will be thrilled by your slenderness
• If you must have something, try a cold boiled potato – with some Greek yoghurt, for a treat
• Wear a scarf all day as part of your outfit – doesn’t cost anything as long as you don’t have to buy the scarf
• Make lists –  go through the home room by room, drawer by drawer, cupboard by cupboard. What needs to be done? Should you re-knife your residence, or re-dinner-plate?  (That means, Get new) The hours spent on this will distract from any possible peckishness. And you will have glorious lists at the end of it
• Give a dinner. May sound odd but if you do not progress beyond chicken or, better still, vegetarian, you could end up in profit from all the bottles of wine brought by your guests
• Go to dinners – manoeuvre your host into doing chicken, then steal all the bones for a bouillon. Remove any other left-overs. They’ll never notice. Remember to take your Tupperware for ease of transport
• Best of all, Don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything. No ski-ing holiday, no Winter Sun, no Easter break,  Absolutely fail-safe. Not only no loss of cachet but possible rarity value accruing even

Do all this and, by April, you’ll be a Multi again.

By the way, I made that broccoli and Stilton soup out of the Multis’ Stilton rind. Much liked. Rind still going in its Emma Bridgewater tin.

Wednesday 20^th January 2010

I heard on Monday that a close friend of friends, working for the UN, met once briefly by me, has died in the Haiti earthquake. His partner, family and friends had been waiting for days, clinging to hope.

Not what you were expecting to hear, perhaps. I hope it is not unseemly to mention it amongst the shopping, over-spending, money-saving and tweeking of the home.

But there it is.  It would be cowardly to leave it out.

Yesterday I was reduced to silence. This person was Italian, from Florence. On Monday, I think, the City Council paid tribute in their meeting and then stood and applauded. It always makes me weep, this bizarre Italian custom of applauding the dead – brave, crazy but somehow true. Every life (well, not every life, speaking of the truth) is some kind of splendid performance, now at an end.

Here, by all accounts, was certainly an exceptional life. This man was bold, determined and, from within an institution, resisted institutionalisation. But only 45 and now his partner, family and friends left, scattered all over the world, denied, in the circumstances presumably, even the comfort of gathering in the place of death. All of that unimaginable. As an outsider, I cannot pretend to know what they are enduring. For Poor Little Rich Gays, all the same, no costly aversion of the eyes from death, no hurling of money into the pit. So I like to think, who has not yet been truly tested. People say, Time heals everything. They speak of Moving On. But every death leaves an indelible mark or ought to.

Sunday 17th January 2010

I mean about slashing costs, re-scheduling debt etc after raging outlay in the January Sales.

At lunchtime, the Multis loomed out of nowhere with a Stilton rind. If you don’t  believe me, look below. That’s it!  In an Emma Bridgewater tin co-incidentally matching the one given me by Cousin Smurry for Christmas.

It’s their Christmas Stilton as was; not the one they gave to Elsa Hodgeman and Lady Newell, obviously. Neal’s Yard, if you’re interested. About £76.

The Photographer Multi suggests I make a Stilton and broccoli soup for our card party on Wednesday.

But, do you know, there’s a lot of good eating left on that rind.  The Multis couldn’t possibly burrow.

I will, though.

There’s easily a week’s worth.

I wonder what your Multis will bring you if you’re reduced after the Sales.

The Multis' Stilton Rind - Emergency Rations as I Re-finance

Saturday 16th January 2010

I’m using bullet points!

• phone your broker. You never know, there may be some old money lying around your advisors have forgotten about
• otherwise, hack into your products to squeeze out every last drop – as below
• maybe tomorrow I’ll think of something else

Hacked Open Bathroom Product - No-one will Ever Know

Hack Open with Nail Scissors - Wrap in Cling-Film to Preserve Contents

Thursday 14th January 2010

Please note stunning and revealing pictures have today been added to the following entries:

‘Sensational Update’ 5th January 2010

‘Poor Little Rich Gays Take The Winter Sun’ 12th January 2010

Wednesday 13^th January 2010

I’m just back from my final revision of the Sales at H Nicks, The Library and Harrods.

I was right! Those Jil Sander shirts with the black trim at H Nicks have been slashed! Now 60 per cent off. Rush to get one. Only size 16, but a small 16. You could be the owner of a whole Jil Sander shirt for as little as £97.50.

At The Library, can you believe it, sale now at 50 per cent, down from 30. I’m right again! The grey moleskin trousers by Nicolo Ceschi Berrini, which I tried on before Christmas, still there. I didn’t tell you about them before. They’ve been my little secret, burning within all through Christmas.

The long, predatory watching, the final swoop – my strategy has worked. In the case of these slacks, how often the first thing we see is what we end up buying after weeks of looking elsewhere. A purchase may be a sudden thunderbolt or long-nurtured, bubbling quietly through the sleep, welling up from the unconscious.

The Thin White Duchess is right (see Comments on ‘What Can We Learn From a High Fashion Lady? Sunday January 10^th 2010). We are hurt into buying clothes and more hurt in the buying. How often in the honed perfection of The Library or H Nicks have I felt dog-earred, ill-fitted, entirely wrong. But through this furnace we must go.

And these last, delirious late sale purchases, when the budget is blasted to smithereens but so are prices, are often the most rewarding.

Now is the time to go home, rebuild your shattered psyche and learn to treasure your purchases: I know I shall love my grey Prada Red Spring coat. It recalls, for reasons I can’t entirely explain, Grace Monaco. The neck is a touch Dior. There’s a couture feel.  It is also an investment in the future, as well as my bold, unexpected gesture these Sales. Do always try to buy ahead; secure your wardrobe’s future. And, when the weather changes, you will not just be dragging out last year’s outfits. You will be new before you’ve begun.

The question now is: will I be able to afford to go anywhere in these clothes? I could have had an entire Winter Sun holiday for the money spent.

We shall see. What will clever re-financing, re-structuring of debt and, who knows, actual work achieve? How will I negotiate the narrow post-Sales straits?  How will I retrench?

My Prada Red Spring Coat, Recalling Grace Monaco - Bold Purchase

Jil Sander Shirt Slashed by 60 Per Cent

Nicolo Ceschi Berrini Moleskin Slacks - 50 Per Cent Off at The Library. Size 52 May be Left

Lord Arrowby's Hot Jacket by Dolce e Gabbana - Bought at Negotiated 20 per cent Discount

Price Tag of Lord Arrowby's Hot Jacket at H Nicks Sale

Tuesday 12th January 2010

I thought you’d like a change from the Sales. But never fear!  Not over yet. Final revision of H Nicks, Harrods and The Library still to be carried out. Then it’s retrenchment. I’m blooming with tips.

Now, huge rush to get to the Opening of the London Art Fair at the Business Design Centre, Islington, London, England. Then afterwards I push out a dinner in my home for the Multis, Eddie Sedgewick, Laura Malcolm  and her son. Every thing ready; I thought my table was looking superbly simple and non-restaurant with the bare polished wood, the old-fashioned mats I got off the Gay Mother, and would please my follower, Nicholas Taudevin – but something missing, I couldn’t think what,  it needed just a little lift. Twenty minutes before I realised – no glasses!  Not surprising looking a little flat, sans sparkle.

I had hoped to give the Multis tickets for the Art Fair opening as a small redress for all their general lavishness, but, guess what, they already had special VIP ones given free.

Let’s consider Winter Sun – as a new topic as much as anything else. Poor Little Rich Gays do love it. Do you know what it is?  Do you know what to do on a Winter Sun holiday?

Laura Malcolm and Matt Driver, Laura travelling officially and rarely as Mrs Matt Driver,  go down to Cape Town on Thursday for five nights (I like the way the pilot on flights to Africa always says, ‘we going down to…Jo’burg, Nairobi…’). It is a combined business trip. Matt has self-sworded and traded in his First Class ticket for two en vache (I’m sure that’s not the French for cattle).

Lucky them! They’re at the Radisson Blu for 3 nights, then at The Monkey Valley Resort, Noordhoek for two. Mrs Driver describes this last as ‘marvellous, run-down’. Could be perfect for Poor Little Rich Gays who, as you know, yearn for a top establishment in need of refurb. Prices down! Who cares about bare wires sticking out from electric sockets. But this Monkey might be a bit much. Only £65 a night. I’ve looked on-line. Very nooky,wooky – a lot of wood. We shall hear more, no doubt.

Strange this yearning for Winter Sun. We always want what we haven’t got.

Robert Nevil is in Calcutta – for three weeks. It’s boiling but is it Poor Little Rich Gay? All I’ve heard is that he went to a flower show with big, vulgar dahlias and chrysanths and very poor roses. Usually he goes to a body-building contest – and he stays with his Indian friends. Lots of servants. Ladies are very religious, go on charabanc outings to visit shrines of Krishna and keep little doll-Krishnas tucked into their bosoms for his warmth and comfort.

So life in Cal home from home.

The Smallmeal/Limpneys, on the other hand, are in Mauritius, at the Royal Palm. This is the hotel where Sean Swallow, the garden designer, in another January, said to chronically dietary, 72-year-old Princess Lee Radizwill, ‘Go on, you’re amongst friends; have a main course’, causing her never to be seen in the dining room again.

In previous years, the Smallmeal/Limpneys have had Africa – hotel with a own private butler; most of the time spent thinking of things for him to do – without success. The Multis too took Kenya for several years but have renounced winter sun, for the time being.

Also calling into question the future of Winter Sun is the decision of Ed Jasper, the bed linen expert, to go to St Barts this winter for the last time.

What does this bode?

Even I have known Winter Sun. Oh yes!  I have achieved it. The Blue Haven Hotel, Tobago. I must tell you more one day. Eddie Sedgewick’s been there too.

Lord Arrowby is to board for India in February. As he usually does. How fascinating it would be to see his progress? Do the dates coincide? Could I just be free to join him for a few days?Could I scratch up the money from somewhere?

I think he’d rather die.

We shall return to Winter Sun. What a subject!  And, maybe, better imagined than actually taken.

My Table for My Post-London Art Fair Dinner - Something Missing, Apart from Spoons?

Do You See What was Missing Now?

Sunday 10^th January 2010

Some of you have probably heard enough about clothes. Don’t worry. On Tuesday we go to the preview of the London Art Fair and I have a dinner for seven afterwards at home. Homely winter food. No Ottolenghi.

So we shall be high-minded.

Besides the sales are almost at an end. Then I shall have to face January – making marmalade, editing my towels, re-building my economy.

And, actually, trying to get control of my wardrobe, bending its various elements into some kind of design, presenting each day a new invention.

Clothes are the absolute front-line. You can’t wear your home and show it in the streets. Give up on frockage and you might as well be dead. Many are dead.

But last Saturday at the Multis with Prince Dmitri we met a high-fashion lady. Botox and fillers. There didn’t seem to be any question of keeping quiet about it. Results excellent. Lady only in early 40s, looking fresh and glowing.

So there’s something new for us in January. Botox and fillers. Fergus Strachan (not seen for far too long) tells me he has given up on the back-street Hastings botoxist.

What else can we glean? Hair. Had you thought of having your hairdresser to the house each morning to blow-dry or otherwise arrange your hair?

Well, you should. That’s what Eva does. I may say, she is mainly at home looking after her children with one day a week working at very prestigious party-planners

Clothes: Poor Little Rich Gays have been in agony because they can’t find what they want or the shelves have been picked clean by rival shoppers. Eva goes to trunk sales. Have you heard of them? Very exclusive. Only for known and good clients of Chanel, Gucci etc. Charbonnel and Walker chocolates on offer but not a single one eaten . You are shown the new collection and get a chance to order in advance. No waiting lists, no missing out.

But are there such events for men? I would have thought Poor Little Rich Gays could get grand and familiar with the queens at Alexander McQueen or wherever, perhaps slip a few hundred, and get the shop opened especially for a sneak preview.

At The Library, which is really my favourite shop, I am only known at sale time. So none of that for me. If you are not rich enough, wear it boldly. I always say: ‘See you at the next sale!’ then  phone up round about the time: ‘Has it started yet? How much off?’

Eva also recommends www.netaporter.com where items are available before they appear in the shops. But again, it’s women only. Where is the men’s version?  I googled away but nothing.

If all else fails, try this: A very well-known gallery owner was once seen by Eva in Prada Bond Street scooping up great heaps of merchandise, not arsed to try anything on, then bearing down on the assistant: ‘Friend of Miuccia’s – 40 per cent discount.’

Infallible, apparently.