Image: Mary McCartney
December 04 2012
I dislike Mondays for no particular reason – perhaps it’s the echoes of my school days. I also tend to make weekly resolutions that I have broken by Tuesday lunchtime. This week’s are no chocolate, and five press-ups a day.
I am currently sharing a flat with my daughter, Emerald – I am homeless in London for the moment – which is very agreeable for me but, I suspect, hellish for her. She is being very decent about it though. Emerald has a book for teenagers coming out in January called Shiverton Hall, while my wife Louise’s second book, Fame Game, comes out in February, so it is a relief to be writing this diary as I can now join in the writers’ angst chez Fennell. My other daughter, Coco, is seemingly above all this, being a designer of fabulous frocks. On the subject of the written word, I am also just finishing the second installment of Rupert Everett’s autobiography, Vanished Years, which is salacious, beautifully written and paced, very funny and is providing some light relief – having just re-read Patrick Hamilton’s dark and wonderful Hangover Square.
After breakfast, I head to our Fulham Road flagship store, above which are my studio and workshop. We have just completed a ring of extraordinary skill that involves a mole and a toad crossing a bridge inside it, and everyone I take upstairs to the workshop to see it has almost (or actually) cried at its sentiment. This is what I always hope really good jewellery will achieve, and the reaction to this particular design is a testament to the skills of the amazing team here, who I find such a joy to work with. We are also in the middle of creating a skating-themed ring and a “paradise” design, and I am quivering with excitement about all of these pieces.
I am barely halfway through Monday, and I have eaten some chocolate already.
In the afternoon, I very nearly do some Christmas shopping, before deciding to make a start tomorrow with a planned trip to Harrods. I walk back to the store past the festive lights of Peter Jones; it is like a beacon of old-fashioned Christmases, and redolent of cosy shopping. I love our own light display, and get quite mawkish about Christmas decorations.
We have dinner at the new, and wonderful, Colbert café in Sloane Square with, among others, Ruby Wax. It looks as if Central Casting has filled the place with “people who look interesting in a café”. Many are very interesting and very jolly. Ruby, though, is her normal quiet, thoughtful self.
Back home, my daughter shows me how to use a thing called BBC iPlayer so that I can watch the crucial 20 minutes of The Killing III I missed at the weekend. I am none the wiser for having seen it, but I find the remorseless gloom, monotonal voices and bleached colours strangely seductive, and I am hooked. The problem with a language as impenetrable as Danish is that if one takes one’s eyes off the subtitles for the briefest of moments, one is completely lost. It is a state of affairs I am finding increasingly common.