Sunday, June 01, 2003
After last month's stuck-in-a-train-tunnel nightmare, I finally made it to the Groucho Club to see my friend (and co-author of Killing Cupid), Louise. The Groucho is a members-only club in the heart of Soho, all cracked leather sofas and minor celebrities discussing cerebral topics like the latest developments in literature and Big Brother. Louise is a member and I'm not, so when I arrived early the doorman recognised me as an interloper and member of the hoi polloi and wouldn't let me in. Perhaps they thought I'd cause a scene and start following Kate Moss to the toilets, or something. Anyway, Louise eventually arrived, I cocked a snook at the barman and in we went.

Stand and Deliver - a white wine and some Twiglets, please.
Adam Ant then...

I guess you want to know which major A-list celebs I spotted, don't you? Hmm, well Madonna and George Clooney were chatting with Beckham and Elvis... no that's a lie. But I did see Stephen Fry (note to non-English readers: he's a comedian/writer who starred in Wilde), the author Margaret Atwood and my childhood hero, Adam Ant. 20 years ago, if I'd seen Adam Ant in the flesh I would have fainted with excitement. This time, I went, 'Oh.' Maybe it's because he's fat and bald now, and completely nuts. I couldn't see if he was carrying a gun though.

...and Adam Ant now.

Our flat is now fully sorted out, and I will provide pictorial evidence soon. I'm going to Cornwall this week, training. Hah! Who needs Toronto or Houston. Bodmin is where it's at, dude.

Readers outside England might be interested to learn that we've had a mini heatwave this week. Now it's raining again.