Diary – 3 May 2008

Vanity thy name is Nikki Bedi. I’ve just been for one of my biannual visits to my ‘derm’ Dr Nick Lowe. The Times recently called him Dr Botox. I’ve been his patient for 13 years; the first seven in Santa Monica, where my skin had begun to resemble a chamois leather. Years of sun worship in India and overactive facial muscles had left me prematurely lined. Rather than spend money on expensive promises in pots, or facials, I treat myself to Botox. This visit, however, Dr Lowe felt I didn’t really need much of the injectable elixir of youth. It’s this restraint I admire. You won’t see his patients with their eyebrows halfway up their frozen foreheads. As a result of all these years of judiciously administered Botox, my face is now more like a moistened chamois. I wish there were Botox gift certificates. Gentlemen do consider this the next time you are buying gifts for your wives, girlfriends or mistresses. Avoid the predictable lingerie or jewellery route. Buy Botox! It’s a high-quality gift for women. Not all cosmetic procedures make good presents though. Men who buy women boob jobs are déclassé. That’s a low-quality option and it’s not really for your woman at all, it’s for your mentertainment and you know it.

Midweek, I blew into Cannes for a night, to be Mistress of Ceremonies at the Sony World Photography Awards. I have a deep appreciation for photography. I was even a photographic goods smuggler as a child. My Indian grandfather was a passionate large-format photographer and had dark rooms in both his homes. It was very difficult to get things like Agfa paper, developing solution and even film in India back then, and the duty one had to pay was extortionate, so my siblings and I would have our suitcases stuffed with this contraband to carry into Bombay.