February 15 2013
I think I have a case of sun depletion. The only way to survive may be to eat great quantities of quality food and drink enormous amounts of whisky. Which reminds me of the time I had to write a piece about my ideal November lunch. It consisted of a meal at Wiltons, with a dozen oysters, a Dirty Martini or two, lamb chops, mashed potatoes and green beans, washed down with claret.
I make 27 calls before 9am. I count them up because I am writing this diary. They cover the following topics: my health, wealth, dreams and diet. As you can see, I am not completely over my man-flu. Next I shower. It’s cold.
I set off for George, a members’ club in Mayfair, to meet my CFO Adam Bent, COO Sallee Poinsette, and Tristram Fetherstonhaugh, the creative director of Finch’s Quarterly Review. I have poached eggs and grilled tomatoes. Fascinating, I know, but we are discussing budgets and ideas for growth, the usual breakfast talk. I am now idea-depleted for the rest of the day.
Next I head to the BBC with Nick Broomfield. We’re still trying to finance his film about the fall of the Belgian Congo and the murder of Patrice Lumumba. Anyone interested should get in touch.
Then it’s on to lunch at my wife’s office - she is head of communications for Dior in the UK. We eat cold spring rolls and chicken pie from Harrods on the tiny terrace, in a little surprise sunshine. It’s very nice.
In the afternoon I meet with an important client from Saudi Arabia, who has a number of interesting businesses in travel and hotels. We discuss opening a Finch & Partners office in the Middle East. I have visions of myself as the Lawrence of Arabia of brand and media. Then there’s a conference call about Savelli, a new luxury mobile phone company focused on the female market.
Next I pick up my shoes from Pierre Corthay on Motcomb Street. Pierre is a French bespoke shoemaker and a pal of mine. The craftsmanship is beautiful; Pierre lives through his shoes.
I’m home early for dinner with my daughter Oona, who is six years old, and her Valentine, Max, who is seven. We go to Lucky Strike, and while they arm wrestle and giggle I have a Bloody Mary – not a drink for a gentleman in the evening. The two little Valentines have a ball.
Then I have to pack, as I leave in the morning for LA, heading first to Miami for a couple of days, then on to the west coast. Apologies for this most boring of diary days. I hope you had a happy Valentine’s, and that many flowers were sold. Isn’t that what it’s for?