Tricky

Black ties that bind

It's been ages since I have had to wear black tie, tux and the whole shebang, then lately I have been deluged with events where it's necessary. Well, deluged is a slight exaggeration. But certainly a few times in recent months. One of them was on Wednesday, the opening of the London Film Festival. I bought a fitted suit about a year ago figuring it was something I really should own. And so, given that, I wore it happily, but annoyingly I was one of the few. I confess I felt a little like serving staff or a doorman. Everyone seemed to take their own interpretation of the dress code, even to the extent that some considered that a suit and tie of any kind was enough. No! Most irritating.

Not a big deal, really. Anyhow, the event was a great thing. The above was taken from the bar at the Empire Casino overlooking Leicester Square, one of the great armpits of London (in my opinion) which is perhaps one reason I have rendered it in black and white. An upper vantage point was much appreciated. The Odeon is all lit up in the middle of the shot, and that's where the main event, red carpet, camera flashbulbs, all that stuff, was occurring. I did quite enjoy walking the carpet, not least because Kevin Bacon was giving an interview behind me as I went into the cinema. And the movie - Frost/Nixon - was fantastic, which does help on the opening night of an event celebrating cinema.

Naturellement, I got to go to the afterparty, at the Hilton on Park Lane. This I had not got high hopes for. Maybe the friend who invited me had been a little down on it, suggesting that the nibbles were likely to be deep-fried and ghastly. Not so as it turned out! That said, my strict rule at those things, even the fanciest, is that any kind of seafood circulating on a platter in a warm room is utterly verboten for obvious reasons. Indeed, I am thinking that waiting by the door the food leaves on its way to the crowd is probably the way to go, to ensure it's the freshest. Thinking about it, if I was really that hygiene-sensitive, given that I and the waiters were wearing the same kit and nobody else was, I could have just slipped into the kitchen and helped myself.

Only happy when it rains

So it wasn't all lashing rain and thick cloud. On Sunday the clouds parted and we got a blast of sunshine which was all well and good, but by that point, I had begun to relish the idea of the set-in bleakness which had become my friend. On Saturday night I curled up in my top-floor boudoir as buckets of rain pelted the windows and wind whirled around the house, I was utterly thrilled by the noise and tumult. This even led to a rare but thrilling Daphne du Maurier moment with the coastal bleakness of it all. However, I was relieved. The sunshine and consequent slight warmth did not linger. Can you see that thick and peturbing darkness on the horizon of the photograph above? Yes, it came to play. And so as it drew near, I retreated to the comfort and warmth of the house and promptly started baking. Saturday had seen the creation of a Nigella flour-less brownie. Sunday lead to a much-raved-about apple and blackberry crumble. Served with local clotted cream.

Time to hit that treadmill.

Devon knows how they make it so screamy

This morning the cloud is so low-lying that I can scarcely see the headland opposite the bay. Still, the waves are fantastic and the sea is dotted with surfers who have made it into the sea and onto boards, and it's only around eight o'clock in the morning. They can keep their relentless fresh air and I'll keep my pyjamas and cup of tea. Thanks.

Yes, you will have surmised that I am not in London but North Devon where a friend of mine has a family home. A group of gays have descended on Croyde bay to celebrate the birthday of one of our number. But whilst usually my entourage has a mix of ages and demographics, this is (largely) a relentlessly young batch. One of the guys is twenty-two years old which frankly gave me pause last night. Until he took his shirt off to dance to Rihanna around eleven thirty. Given that, and the volume those Summer of '08 dance tracks were being jacked out on a B&O system (that's quite some oomph, trust me) while the storm to end all storms lashed the large screen windows with high winds and thick rain, it's just as well the house is a little way out of the main village. Angered locals would be pumelling the door down if we were any closer to civilisation.

Much earlier, some hours before the dancing began, while the young ones complained bitterly about the whole concept of the thing, I absolutely loved getting onto the beach for a walk amid the swirling drizzle and crashing waves. Yes, I got my feet wet, which is where I usually hit my tipping point into the realm of 'wouldn't it be much better viewing this from a comfortable armchair' but despite my arriving at the pub with hair blown inside out and back to front like a Rita Sullivan shampoo and set, it was worth every second. Those youthful gays I mentioned earlier peeled off for alcohol and warmth fairly quickly, leaving the stalwart over-30s to pick up the slack. One of us even brought down a wetsuit and considered putting it on, but I left him to it. Even for me, that's a bridge too far.

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