As uncle and godfather to my newborn niece, it has fallen to me to be her guiding force- at least while my sister and her husband have their backs turned. It will be my task, one gratefully accepted, to mould her tender unformed mind and spirit into something splendid. Under my unstinting tutelage she will learn to be her own person- this is my vow. We've just spent a glorious week together in the sun and already I can see my influence...

4 Days Before
Finally book a flight and hotel and am shocked at the cost. Apparently Memorial Day falls right in the middle of my weeklong trip and all of America will be joining me in journeying to the sunny beaches and resorts of the southeast. Am already dreading the traffic and crowded airport lounge.

3 Days Before
Head out in search of a gift for my 6 month old niece on her christening, and remembering the fondness the women in my family have for jewelery decide on a tiny silver bracelet only to be told that it would take about a week to have it made. Finally discover a doll made in France with eyes that close when you lay it down. The resemblance to my niece is uncanny. I have it wrapped in jolly paper and hope for the best. Begin to wonder vaguely what exactly is the appropriate gift for a christening.

2 Days Before
Stare blankly at the contents of my closet for hours. Am utterly torn between the two vastly different aspects of this trip- a week near the ocean in very hot temperatures and a quite good nightlife scene, but surrounded by relatives (most of them distant) who already harbour notions of my supposed debauched and frivolous lifestyle. As uncle and godfather I know I should be a bit buttoned up, and yet...
Ultimately decide that only one day really matters- the day of the christening, when all these people will be around. The rest of the days I'll spend in the company of my sister, her husband and my mother- all of whom have long since accepted and approved my fashion sensibilities.
Set aside four pairs of shoes, a few bottles of wine of New York vintage and my niece's doll to be FedEx-ed, and several garments to go off to the cleaner's.

1 Day Before
Find other little gifts for my niece while strolling the streets: some onesies (those all-in-one things that babies wear) with cute logos; one has the lips from the Rolling Stones huge on the front, another has 'ACDC' written on it and the last one, 'CBGB', that notorious rock club where everyone played in the 70's and 80's; also a pair of baby sunglasses.
Dry cleaning delivered and ready to be packed along with everything else into a light garment bag and a small carry-on.
Order a car to drive me to the airport at a ridiculous hour in the morning and arrange to meet a friend for dinner tonight before the launch party of yet another magazine.

See you next week...

There were neat stacks of shirts in sombre colours laid out on the bed. All of them in the finest cotton and in one or two cases, silk, or some substance near it. They formed gossamer pyramids and lay immobile like those ancient structures while all round them fell, like shot grouse, trousers and jackets and other sundry vestments. Down came leather belts and ties and socks- falling here and there, but nothing would upset the stacks of shirts, for they had been meticulously cleaned and pressed. Between each fold lay a sheet of whisper thin paper and round each collar, under the direction of a superior mind, there was a thin and sturdy length of cardboard. Across the room stood a tall mirror framed in dark mahogany, a helpless witness to the assaults on the bed. Also captured in the unblinking reflection was a slender and very good looking man- the cause of the bedroom's disarray. Stripped to the waist he surveyed his form, his brow furrowed by the weight of major decisions.

He knew this time would come, he had always known. But it had come so quickly, he thought with dismay, and for the first time there didn't seem to be any easy solution. Why not simply cancel the whole trip? But he knew he couldn't do that. Better to just press on. Inspiration, that sudden and always welcome muse would miraculously appear. Clinging to this last desperate hope he sidestepped the errant shoes that lay scattered and trudged back to the cupboard.

An hour later and that hoped-for inspiration dawned. He would wear the black blazer and the lace-up cap-toed shoes on the plane- the rest of the ensemble would somehow fall into place, maybe the jeans since that too would lighten his load. The plan had much to recommend itself. By wearing the bulkier items he would be left with ample room in his case for the extravagant purchases he knew he would need. The very good looking man surveyed his now organised combinations and, satisfied, began to load them into his Vuitton epi leather bag, carefully stuffing his shoes with the belts and filling the crevices with socks and undergarments. At 54 cm this bag would fit perfectly beneath his seat on any Air France liner. No, he couldn't take the risk of the always unpredictable luggage carousel. Not this time.

With hours to spare and feeling peckish the traveller then spent a few minutes in his small kitchen and after a light snack, tidied up this room and the rest of his flat. It would be some time before he returned.
But he made one mistake.

Even the best-laid plans can go wrong and it is for this reason that our traveller had long since made it a routine to check and double-check. To triple-check was an idea that only occurred to him and with full force as he rose from the excellent slumber only the Ritz-Carlton can provide. What started out over dinner the night before as a vague uneasiness blossomed into a full panic at breakfast as he realised he had forgotten to pack the one pair of short trousers that was to insure the day's success. His mind raced back to the careless moment when, and he could see it perfectly, he refolded the blasted shorts and put them away. What had he been thinking? After weeks of planning and rsvp-ing, after fittings and making test runs he had felt confident nothing could go wrong and now he stood half-dressed, his promenade along the Croisette delayed. Cancelled. This was to be his big moment, amid all those overdressed and so ill at ease pompous A-listers in from L.A. and New York and Paris, he would be seen as 'at home' in something just a bit more casual.

Once again the brow of the very good looking man was made to furrow. The initial effect was to make him even slightly more attractive and the sight of him there as the sun streamed in through the windows and the acres of silk and cast its glow upon his pain-stricken face was truly touching. As is usually the case, though we sweat with anxiety and rock in our chairs, ultimately the frisson subsides and we emerge from the mire better off- or at least better dressed than we ever imagined. And so it was with a lightened heart that the traveller raced through the suite and bounded to the bedroom wardrobe that stood radiating benevolence in the centre of the room. With that mystical word, 'Eureka', a breath away from his lips, he flung open the doors and searched within for a pair of high-top Nike trainers with laces fat and suitably 'old school'. The pieces began to fall together quickly. Next came gym shorts very much like the ones he'd worn all those years ago, though these came from the skilled hands of a talented Italian designer whose fee for a scrap of unlined cotton was just under a fortune. The same of course could be said for the deceptively simple white shirt and tailored black blazer that followed, also courtesy of the Italian. The very good looking man turned to the mirror in a facile way, one that bespoke a natural habit, and finding no fault reached for the final item. Knee-high athletic socks, white with wide yellow stripes are not to be found in the exclusive boutiques devoted to Italian fashion. Nor even in the larger department stores that litter the high streets and which are acceptable anywhere in the world. For these one must travel to the far-off neighbourhoods where high school sports still serve as the main diversion for its inhabitants and the shops there that cater to its custom.

It was unfortunate that the paparazzi that had descended upon this tiny French town once again failed to capture the very good looking man as he arrived, drank and mingled, but chose instead to train their lenses on the many actresses, with the assisted gold of their hair and the borrowed diamonds round their necks to appear sparkling benignly in the next day's tabloids and glossy magazines. It had been a long day into night and in the end not a complete loss for the traveller. Despite the rebuffs from the photographers there had been a few glances and approving nods and in particular one smile. And so it had come long after the sun had withdrawn. When the stars had twinkled and shone and collected their awards. When the sound of two voices solitary and low could just be heard over the violent crashing of waves in the sea... The very good looking man turned to the achingly beautiful one beside him, and remembering all he had done in preparation for this moment, sought his reward.

Just returned from a much-needed mini-break at the seaside where my computer has been outlawed (my own decree, but gutting nevertheless). Back at home now and I've just spent, well I don't know how long- four cigarettes and a cup of coffee, reading some very cheering comments and personal messages from a few of my fellow bloggers. You'll never know how much it means to someone like me who so often has come to the end of what I think is a fascinating story only to find that everyone has left the room.
And so I thank you for sticking around.

5:45 PM Sunday
What a mess this place is. Just look at it, every surface buried beneath layers of clothing, papers and crap. It looks like a crime scene. Is this how I live? Anyone who walked in right now... as if that door could even open with the pile-up of umbrellas and wellies and last night's trash blocking it. I should just take that out even though its all empty bottles and recycling day was today. I've missed it again though, haven't I? Somehow I always forget recycling day. No, what I really should tackle immediately is this living room, then at least I could have a nice relaxing drink with my feet up. Here, I'll just shove these old newspapers aside. There, that's better. Uggh, when did that spill happen? You know that'll never come out. That's it! No more red wine allowed in the house. Or for that matter the Frenchmen who bring it. I know a couple of bottles of Cotes du Rhone with Jean-Charles or Jean-Louis sounds like ripping fun but believe me, there lies the way to ruin- the cause of so many bitter regrets. 'Better off with gin anyway'. Who used to say that all the time? The mother of someone at school, I think. Some cheerful soul who probably kept a stainfree house in Surrey well-stocked with Tanqueray. No I'd better not start in with the gin until I put this place to rights. One drink I'm feeling grand, two drinks I can barely stand, three drinks and I'm a hot young stud far too sexy to be cooped up alone in this shithole when I could be out helling around with a bunch of other hot young studs and studettes- all of us reeking of cigarettes and sex, gin and sin. That does sound like fun, though. Life's too short and one sip won't kill me. Better off with gin anyway...
6:17 PM
(sipping sound) Mmm, that's nice. Just right in fact, not too much tonic like at that place the other night. Even after I offered, pleaded to pay more for a man-sized dose, and that surly barkeep who, (sip) mmn delicious, just kept glaring at me, you know, like he wasn't even seeing me. Bastard. And this is the good stuff too. (sip) Mmmmmm yum. I'll just pour another to keep this ice from clinking...
7:26 PM
Know wot? I'm goin' out. Yeah, tha's right. Fartin' round this place like some codger, like some geezer. Effin' gorgeous too, I am. Jus' look a me. Yeah. Long lean stud machine, jus' the way they likes it. (sip) Think I'll slip into those dangerously low-rise Cavalli jeans with the rips in 'em, nice that. Tee-hee! Yeah, but suffink smart on top or then it's jus' tacky innit, but drop dead to you know, show off me abs. 'I love the nightlife, I love to boogie, on the disco raaa-ound, yeah'. Tha's wot I want- a bit a' boogie-ing...
5:45 PM Monday
God what a sight this place is. Did someone throw a party while my back was turned? There's really nothing for it but to torch it all and start over. And I'd do some things differently, I can tell you. First, I'd ban all alcohol from the premises. Not so much as a drop of sherry should cross the threshold of my new pristine minimalist haven (Mum will have to have her tipple elsewhere). There would be a place for everything, and everything would... now who left this bottle on top of the hi-fi? Let me just put this away. Then I am really going to get things in order...
8:58 PM
"...better off yeah, you're better off baby, I said you're better off wi' gin anywa-aaaaay".

Certain of my friends have discovered that I've become a blogger and have expressed their concern about one or two things- mainly the respect for their own privacy (which understandibly, they hold dear and go to great lengths to protect) and have gently pulled me aside to have a word. We understand that your life is an open book, they say with tolerance and emphasis on the pronoun, but well, you must understand... And so on. It's true that I pass my life never caring about and often oblivious to the opinions of others. Consequently I have never heard or read a truly vicious comment about me. I've already put it out there, you see. Although recently as I wended my way through a crowded restaurant I was waylaid by an acquaintance who 'sincerely hoped there was no truth to a rumour' he had heard. In response I smiled amiably and said "Ooh, I love that jacket". As a diversionary tactic it always works as people seem to think I'm obsessed with fashion.
It's not just the matter of seeing their names in print or their photographs being hurled into cyberspace, another worry of my well-meaning mates is the very content of my blog, which must keep them awake at nights, poor things. Bosom intimates, they know the tales, have witnessed some- been party to others and imagine that I will tell all. If they ever bothered to read the truly benign ramblings I offer for posterity they might save themselves a few white nights. So bearing the wishes of others in mind, and if you'll pardon the device, I shall henceforth be forced to refer to Mister X, Madame Zed and the like.
I take great encouragement from Mister A who really puts it out there himself despite being what is known as a well-known television personality. His own blog is ever a joy to read- full of spiritual insight and colour photographs and it was he who urged me to give up my antiquated paper and pen method and thereby save a few trees. But he would say a thing like that, wouldn't he?
So to my loving and supportive friends I thank you one and all. To you I raise my glass and toss what may sound like a kiss.

Huge party for the opening of the new retrospective of Chanel's fashions at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The invitation sat on my mantle for at least a week before I rsvp'd. For some reason I couldn't summon the usual excitement. The show has been open for a week but the fundraiser is tonight. It has all the hallmarks of a great event: open bar (always guaranteed to make me arrive early and stay late); a star-studded guest list; and the assurance that everyone there will be dressed to the teeth. I've been wondering what to wear and have decided to debut my new white suit and the two-tone spectator shoes which are the only appropriate ones to wear with such a get-up. I began to get more excited about this party, but why, I asked myself, do I even hesitate? Who am I kidding when I say that I might not be able to attend?
That suit, by the way, was meant to be inaugurated at my niece's christening at the end of this month when one can legitimately wear white. Who really follows these antiquated rules anymore beside our grandmothers? I have not worn a white suit since probably my own christening and the idea always seemed a bit, well you know. But I have complete faith in my designers and at the fittings I felt (and thought I looked) like Denzel Washington.
But what shirt to wear. I couldn't very well wear the starched white shirt and pale cream tie that will be perfect as I stand as uncle and godfather on my niece's day of celebration. No. For Chanel Night I need to be a bit sexier. I thought of Seal and opted for a thinner shirt to be worn unbuttoned to there. So, all is set.
These events, no matter how elegant they seem, always turn into a piss-up. I'm really beginning to look forward to tonight when we will all stand around in this very grand museum gazing at the work of that venerated artist, all of us chic-ly dressed and sipping our drinks until that moment (one can always feel it coming on) when the voices get a bit louder, the crowd begins to sway collectively and suddenly cackles come out of nowhere. I will inevitably spill my fifth drink. And instead of being embarrassed will toss my head in the shared laughter of those clustered around me. Some woman will lurch in my direction with a finger on her lips to hiss conspiratorily (and quite loudly) "shhhh" and then collapse in giggles.

I've been going out rather a lot lately and it's beginning to take its toll on me. Let's face it, although nature has been extraordinarily kind and I can and often do pass for a far younger man, the camera no longer loves me. I have here a copy of the daily rag and there I am embracing my former flatmate at her birthday bash last night. She naturally looks great, despite being a dedicated smoker, the mother of two toddlers, and married to a rockstar, while I look haggard. Well, maybe not haggard but just look at those bags under my eyes. These days the compliments I get all centre around my clothes when not too long ago- was it really that long ago? people would ask if I was Naomi's brother. In the caption below the photo I'm listed as "celebutante" John Hamilton Palmer and I can't help felling the scorn and more than a little sarcasm in those inverted commas. Perhaps they really wanted to refer to me as "doyen" but feared the wrath of my legal advisors.
I've never admitted this but I do have a pose that I reserve for these little photo ops, one meant to relay youth and vigour and elan. It involves a slight head tilt and a knowing glint in the eye and sometimes a repositioning if the light isn't right. But from now on I think I'll do what so many others do and just wear sunglasses.
The one thing I did enjoy about last night's party however was the dancing. Everyone was out on the floor. The music was decidedly 80's which is perfect for our set. So often today people just sit around and lounge, too cool (or perhaps too arthritic) to shake it like we used to. But not last night. There is another photo from the party that I'm pleased to see made it in the paper. It's of a fashion editor and a veteran actor in from Hollywood (neither of them known to boogie and both wearing sunglasses) doing some sort of disco grind and laughing their heads off.
All in all it was a lovely night and I had a great time even if I did look in need of a long restorative nap.

My sister, her husband, their newborn baby and my mother have decided to come to New York for a long weekend visit next month. All of them. At the same time. My reply was that I hoped I'd be in town. In fact, I instantly thought of looking into flights to arrange a "prior engagement". Actually, I would be delighted to see my sister and her husband and my gorgeous niece (by the way, at 5 months old she's now weighs 10 pounds and is 27 inches long- all legs), and a long weekend with my dear mother would be great. But at the same time!! I wondered aloud where they would stay.
The joke was on me for they'd already booked suitable hotel rooms in my area. And my sigh of relief could be heard long-distance. Now it's simply a matter of a lunch on one day, a dinner the next, etc. It's not that I don't want these people living in my home, but you know, really...

Last night I took myself out to enjoy a bit of New York nightlife. I was in a celebratory mood (another triumph in my professional life) and directed my steps toward a downtown establishment little advertised yet packed always, and was instantly met there by the sights and sounds of hot young things in mid-revel. They had all gathered, no doubt, to drink healths to themselves, each other and the world in general. All very admirable. I joined in with them, my brothers (for there were no ladies present) to raise my glass. I soon made the acquaintance of a young gentleman from Iowa who was standing quite near me at the bar and who confessed that since my arrival he'd been burning to know me. He admitted that he'd observed my entrance and my expert positioning at the crowded bar (it's true, there is an art to that). His eyes had feasted (feasted!) on my elegant ensemble and my graceful carriage within it (these midwestern boys don't miss a trick). Since then he'd been searching for the perfect opening line with which to detain me. "Thank you," I said, "that's very kind. And I'm sure sincerely felt". Now why do I go on talking like that amid hot young things dressed in sweat-drenched Diesel in a downtown backalley club that has probably never even been mopped? Unfortunately, once I've started... Nevertheless I smiled and my admirer pressed on. At around our fourth drink I became aware of his superb physical condition (perhaps we shook hands or something) and his even greater desire to enter into a friendship with me.

As a young man (although not nearly as young as some) I discovered that in a crowded room I would often attract the attention of many of the gentlemen there but never that of the ladies. For a long time this puzzled me...
Life, I later realised, is nothing but a series of experiences strung together on a line and hopefully along the way some lessons learned. I've learned to accept and enjoy life -mine happens to be a good one and could be a lot worse. Oh sorry, back to last night...

Anyone attempting to peer into the heavily draped windows of this downtown address would have just been able to discern the dim figures of two tall slender males sitting at the far end of the bar apparently in deep conversation. Prolonged vigil would have yielded no new information as the subjects stayed huddled at their seats until the small hours, unaware or uncaring of the din around them. Every now and then one would say something the other found funny, a small playful smile quickly turning to laughter. Or one would lean in to whisper a secret thought. And then suddenly they were gone. Only the two empty glasses, so often refilled, remained testament that anyone had even been there at all.

Just popped outside to watch the sunset. Sitting on my own steps enjoying a cigarette when a neighbour from the bottom of my road ambles by and asks me when I intend to quit. "Quit what?", I say after exhaling politely in the other direction. "Those cigarettes. They're so bad for your health". Now you must understand I don't really know this man- we've never spoken, just a few polite nods. So, slightly taken aback, I say, "You have an interest in my health?" To which he replies, "Sure, I tell everybody I know who smokes to give it up". He said more, but I'll not reproduce it here. Nothing foul or mean, mind, just all of it righteous.
In my view there's far too many people running around telling others what's good for them- as I was saying to this concerned neighbour not five minutes ago, especially here in America (although I see the trend popping up in other countries) where suddenly everybody's a bible-quoting Christian and every magazine and morning show has a makeover expert to bully some perfectly fine individual, with the inevitable result that the victim ends up looking just like the celebritymakeovergurunazi. When did all of this policing start? I don't know, but I know where it will end.
Ruined a perfectly good sunset.

Well isn't this cosy. I've been reading all the posts submitted by you my fellow bloggers, and it is clear that there are not many of us out there. But that's all right. Much better that way, just us, you know. We can let our hair down. I've really enjoyed the stories. Some made me laugh and some were poignant and so forthcoming. Since this blog is meant to be an outlet for me and all my crap, I would like to be as forthcoming as I can. It may be hard but I shall try.

I find the strangest things move me now. I'm becoming sentimental I suppose. Two young bloggers who write of the anxieties and frustrations of teen life and preparing to go off to uni had me smiling wistfully down two decades. We would haunt the King's Road back then in search of black rubber bracelets and pins with rude slogans to put on our oversized vintage coats. We had lots of hair and did all sorts of things to it. Remember coloured mousse? Think Duran Duran and Culture Club and you'll probably have a clear image of me with Ray and Keenan in tow. Others perhaps fretted over A levels and revisions but not me. School was the one aspect of my little life that I excelled at. So I spent a very pleasant half hour reminiscing and I thank you for that.

It all started out as a way to celebrate the fact that I would very soon become an uncle. Mon tonton Jon is French for 'my uncle John' and I imagined that my little niece or nephew would eventually refer to me in that charming way. We learned early that my sister Lisa's bulge contained a girl, which sent her into glorious waves of ecstasy. You see, she had always wanted a girl, and her husband Bobby, bless him, was equally thrilled. Now when Lisa was just a teenager (cd's and trendy clothes, driving lessons, gymnastics and homework), I had already been living some years in Paris (nightclubs and catwalks, cigarettes and wine and amour libre). It was then that Lisa had chosen the name of her daughter should fortune ever smile upon her- Paris it would be. I like to think that my sister is paying a tribute to her big brother in choosing for her child the name of my adopted city. She knows what Paris will always mean to me.

Lately I have developed a bad case of get-away-from-it-alls and all I can think about is hopping on an airplane bound for some far-flung sunkissed isle. Here in New York City where I spend so much of my time (I actually live here, but I keep on thinking it's only temporary), I have just begun to notice those vaguely annoying signs of spring. There are flowers in bloom and trees in full leaf just outside my window. And I can see my neighbours, those ultraprivate souls, aloof always and rather surly as a rule, now exchanging pleasantries over their garden fences as they hoe and weed and mulch and stuff varicoloured plants into freshly dug holes. Out on the urban streets the cafes and restaurants have suddenly sprouted outdoor tables and I want nothing so much as a quiet hour at one of them with a book and a tall gin and tonic. But then a more powerful urge strikes and I want to bypass lovely spring and jump hipdeep into summer. Yes, I want August and I want it now.
I wish I could enjoy the springtime. Others certainly do. I see them experimenting wildly with their fashions- the temperature being just right for the mixture of leather jackets and scarves and flip-flops. And there they are bicycling a deux along these murderous streets, so consumed with nature's changes and I suspect their own blameless love, that they seem oblivious to the traffic and exhaust fumes and whatnot. I wish I could be content like them and enjoy this moment.
But I know what lies ahead. In just a few short weeks there'll be that intense heat which for me is ever like a lover's embrace, and perhaps even humidity to make our wavy-haired friends grumble. Summer Holiday beckons and Autumn is a far-off dream. We'll all be forced to flee to the seaside in cars and trains and airplanes, to arrive at places where the air is a little lighter and life a little simpler. We'll leave our cares at home and pack in our cases only the skimpiest of clothes. We'll lie in the sun and sip draughts of cooling drinks with bits of lime in them. And the nights will never end.
Ah, summer.