November 30 2010
On arrival in the office today, I was flattered to see that the fashion this winter according to the papers is a Nordic approach to what one wears; and perhaps predictably I was almost a mirror image, with my wool patterned long johns and Russian fur hat along with the obligatory yellow Ray-Bans. Quite a dash on the King’s Road – and what a dash it is now, positively Baltic outside.
The day was spent organising my forthcoming trip to Moscow (-15 and dropping) at the end of the week, and ensuring that the plans for Lucian Freud’s birthday party next week are all under control. The evening was spent at the Literary Review Bad Sex Awards, for which I was once the prize-giver to a very nervous scribe who won this doubtful accolade. Last night the dubious honour fell to Michael Winner, who arrived with the legendary Geraldine looking like a young version of Sally Green. My “fiancée” Rachel Johnson (see her Twitter) was there with her husband Ivo Dawnay, and was boasting how she had won the award two years ago. Max Egremont and Claus von Bülow towered above the hordes of tiny jostling journalists.
I followed this up with dinner in the wilds of Clerkenwell with my Dutch banker friend Peter Ten-Broek. So on this happy note, I am hereby ending seven days of world-shattering and government-toppling Niki-Leaks.