Saturday, 7 February: Until this morning, my birthday yesterday was a blur. Late Thursday evening I went out with David Jammy and that wonderful girlfriend of his, Monika Wagenberg. David was intent on getting us into a bar called P.D.T. (they make one swear a non-breakable blood oath not to divulge what it stands for), but we were not among the chosen. Trying to plant one’s butt on a stool at its copper-topped bar counter involves visiting a small fast-food place called Crif Dogs, on St Mark's Place in the East Village, where the staff point you to a wood-panelled vintage phone booth with a white house phone. You press the button on the phone and Miss Chastity Lovely, tall and gorgeous, opens a secret door in the wall of the phone booth. "I am so sorry, but we have absolutely no space available. Maybe I'll have a table in the next hour and a half. Or next week, perhaps?" You crane to see behind her (not an easy thing because she's got a swimmer's shoulders) and there are at least two empty banquettes. David opened his charm tap but it slid off her like a mink coat from bare skin. He tried to convince her that, because I’m so terribly old, I might die of the shock I’d suffer if I had to enter a new year in, oh, say, the Odessa Café. Which is exactly where we celebrated my birthday. Miss Lovely eventually phoned and we had early-morning cocktails at P.D.T. (mine was delicious, even if by now I have entirely forgotten what was in it), and David had a hot dog that arrived via a secret service hatch. Eventually it was very late and it had all been a bit too much, so in the cab home David and I competed to explain to Monika what lovely friends we have in Joburg, and how they adore us so much, and how long we have known them, and where we met each one the first time, and how much we love them, and how much they will love her. A fine, fine birthday.
