Morning:
8°c
One of my recent discoveries in London is the Chelsea Physic Garden, founded in 1673 by the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries. Unlike social clubs which are haemorrhaging members, the Chelsea Physic Garden has doubled its membership since 2006 from 2,500 to 5,000; last year 34,500 people visited the garden, the highest number on record.
It's just around the corner from Gordon Ramsay's Foxtrot Oscar and the food is far, far superior. Annual membership is £28, which makes it better value than the Groucho Club.
Sadly it may have become a victim of its own success. Its trustees have just sent out a letter saying they have decided to reduce the number of free family guests per cardholder from two to one. Children under five will still be admitted for free.
I have spent hours slumbering in its grounds and admiring the flora and fauna. The parks of London provide a welcome respite from the hurly-burly of urban life but there are few greater pleasures in life than curling up and having a siesta in the heart of Chelsea beneath Britain's largest outdoor fruiting olive tree.
* The other night I hotfooted it from a prize ceremony at the British Library in honour of Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney (how many prizes does one man need?) to see the French singer Liliane Montevecchi perform at the Pizza on the Park - from poetry to poetry in motion.
She is no ordinary chanteuse: the 76-year-old was dressed in a cat suit and was as lithe as an elephant's proboscis. Among those in the audience were Paul O'Grady, the Queen of Norway and Jocelyn Stevens. "I want to cry," said my hostess, Victoria Mather. Luckily the lights were dim so nobody could see anyone else's tears of joy. Mine included.
* There is a priceless moment in Madame de Sade when Rosamund Pike's character compares her breasts to those of Judi Dench and claims her own don't "have the hypocritical shape imposed by the conventions and by conformity with the world". That certainly made me sit up and think. Not about the breasts of our leading actresses but about why on earth Dame Judi agreed to act in this turkey of a play.
Anyway, I am grateful to the cast and to director Michael Grandage for sending me back to the original - not Yukio Mishima's play but de Sade's 120 Days of Sodom. It is at once preposterous, grotesque and utterly riveting. In other words a sensational read.
But a word of warning: best not take it to the genteel Chelsea Physic Garden.
