Diary – 19 July 2008

We’re back in St Tropez after a whirlwind week in London. The party season is in full swing so I dipped my toes in a couple, and what a difference between two of the most high-profile events that week. One, an exhibition of paintings at a Dover Street Gallery, was given in a large airy room with a wide balcony and pretty garden, in which one could stroll. There was enough space and enough time to chat with groups of friends and acquaintances, who could wander around admiring the great pictures and eat the hors d’œuvres without getting jostled and poked. An affable Michael Winner, Steven Berkoff, Ivor Braka, Frederick Forsyth, Christopher Biggins, and apparently even the elusive Banksy, who reportedly stuck his head around the door for a few minutes, were just some of the guests at this extremely civilised drinks party. By contrast, two nights later, in a narrow storeyed house in Old Queen Street, a heaving mass of wall-to-wall people, many seemingly gargantuan, crammed together in such a tiny space that Percy and I, despite our ardent efforts, could not make our way through the crush to greet our host.