Diary - 5 September 2009

I write from a beach in Ibiza. To my left, three men are sheltering under my sunshade and frowning out to sea. Their arms are folded across their chests and they are discussing London property prices. ‘Fifteen million,’ one is saying, ‘for a flat in Eaton Square. It’s broken some kind of record, apparently.’ The other two make noises which could indicate awe or disgust, I cannot tell. On my right, two women are picking at their bare feet and comparing primary schools in Notting Hill. Then one lowers her voice — the pitch, not the volume — and announces that a married friend of hers is having an affair.

‘It’s so awful,’ she says, her voice sepulchral, ‘being the only one who knows.’

‘Is this the same one you were telling me about the other night?’ asks her friend, yawning.

‘Did I?’ says the first, discomfited. ‘God I must have been pissed.’