It was time to do something about that growing mountain of loose photographs. For so long they had been shoved to the back of the drawer cleverly hidden in my coffee table, to exist alongside errant matchbooks and packets of cigarettes (backup), and capless pens long dry. I would invest in the simple solution of a photo album. My dim and dusty memory plucks forth the image of the one my parents had. Champagne-coloured leather bordered in gold, elegantly heralding the mundane passage of a smiling, though curiously attired middle class family. From its yellowed pages I once stole with my grubby hand one black and white shot of my late grandmother, circa 1955. Dressed for a 'cotillion' in a formal gown of some sheeny substance, gentle curls and a carefree grin. Had the photographer pulled back a bit before capturing forever the spirit of this dear lady, a little more of that corsaged wrist could have been seen, too. She now sits on a table in this room, framed in heavy silver and smiling still.

I found myself in the softness and eerie quiet of a venerable French magasin, known the world over for the quality of its leathergoods and the proliferation of its scarves- silky squares of whimsy that grace the necks, heads, waists and even handbag handles of nearly every woman you see in the international departures halls. I cast about for a salesgirl. I can remember when this place was teeming with little leggy things in somber blue suits, their skirts suitably shortened and the trademark scarf like a dead flower round each neck. Today not a whisper. Not a breath. Pas de vendeuse. I was left to fend for myself in a jungle of finely-wrought calf and lizard and alligator and crocodile. Red is a colour that my eyes have finally adjusted to. I see it now and more than appreciate it, I crave it, especially in little things. So it was no surprise to me to gaze down at my hands and catch them in the act of fondling the downy suede of a large red photo album. Red calf leather hugged the spine, inside, heavy vellum paper of ecru simplicity lay nestled, capacity- 300 photos.

Suddenly a blue-suited figure loomed. A matron of compact proportions and excessive rouge. "May I help"; she managed to lisp the phrase devoid though it was of the troublesome 's'. I noticed that my lady of sales had posessed herself of at least two of the ubiquitous scarves for this, her canter round the selling floor. Together they looped and flourished in a riot of clashing pattern until they were mercifully laid to brooched bed, exhausted by their efforts, at the padded perch of the good woman's left shoulder. My business with her lasted only a moment and she was left to spend the remainder of the day with her experiments.

I took two of these beautiful books, and taxiing homeward, I began to look forward to quiet nights by the fire among the memories of days gone by and people as I once knew them.

The early morning view from my window unveiled, stained by the hideous sun. To the south a few haggard trees struggling to stand upright, like hungover sailors. To the north, which is to say the right, newly painted shops sit cozily and contentedly beneath towering blocks of expensively renovated lofts. A curious mixture of window styles wink back at me. Suddenly some movement in the street. An overlarge jeeplike behemoth, de rigueur for the average family of four, lumbers up to an illegal parking space just outside my door and disgorges its contents, my neighbours from across the road.

Out trips Mrs. Opposite clearly at the end of her tether, followed by sufficient grounds- two towheaded boys of about nine and eleven and a wooly dog roughly the size of a horse. Back from the country where blessedly they pass their romping weekends. We've become friends over the years and I always enjoy the stories that Mrs. Opposite has to tell of the grey dismal days before this neighbourhood was graced with the cool veneer of chic it now enjoys. Years ago these neglected streets were home to the homeless, and drug-addicted drifters made merry in the doorways. One night it seems my neighbour had had it and came flying down her steps with baseball bat in hand. The sweat gleaming on her brow and causing her cashmere twinset to cling to her rigid form. Her confrontation was with a chronic shooter-upper who intruded daily upon the comings and goings of the new mother, her bundled burden pressed to her quaking bosom. At this moment, unburdened, she stood before the glass-eyed devil radiating determined malevolence. She sought within for the South Florida hell-cat with nerves of steel and one or two past criminal transgressions that lurked beneath the two-hundred dollar hairdo and designer clothes. Exit the now limping poppyeater.

Even today she is the most feared of the neighbourhood. It was lately rumoured that she threatened to throw a certain French lady down a flight of stairs for some infraction or other, and when asked, Mrs. Opposite will push the Chanel sunglasses onto her forehead and fix you with a gimlet eye of frankness and in the same voice generally reserved for extending dinner invitations, will coo, "That was no rumour".

There is in fact a Mr. Opposite too, but his appearances are brief. He's a television producer and one imagines, quite busy. The name I've chosen for the pair is an apt one; if I pose husband and wife together it becomes clear they are as night and day. She, tall and sturdily built. Never shy, sometimes boisterous with a mouth crammed with four-letter words. Her power lay in the surprise upon hearing her speak when her first silent approach promised only the ruffles of a rare gentle breeze on a summer day. He stands a few inches shorter than his wife (in this imaginary room where we can actually see the two together), and is lean to the point of disappearing. I've yet to see him so much as smile yet I hear whispers of his wicked sense of humour. His soft-spoken manner is deceptive in that it is presumed, erroneously, that no fires burn within. Mr. and Mrs. Opposite are more alike than a mere cursory glance could foretell, and much more fun to be around. The two have been together these twenty years happily torrorising the town with their tantrums, that obnoxious car, that foul dog (unleashed) and those two loud, unwashed sticky-faced kids. It's good to have them back.

Mine is a life blissfully unencumbered by drama. There is no scandal for me to live down, no shame forcing me to lock myself away in my flat. In fact, and I feel I can say this to you, my life is rather boring. I spend my days like anyone else- in the quotidian merry-go-round of protracted lunches followed by the bickering, cajoling lovefest that is an afternoon at my tailor's. But I have here the riveting story of the death of Edouard Stern, that Swiss banking tycoon, reproduced in all the world's papers that make their way to my door, a story full of drama and scandal. And shocking murder.

Well, it has nothing to do with me, I didn't even know the man, although his long-suffering ex-wife lives here in New York and works for Sotheby's and surely our paths must have crossed at some time. If it were any business of mine I would tell you that he was found locked in his Geneva apartment, his dead body dressed only in a flesh-coloured latex bodysuit. Paris Match has provided photographs but none of that strange garment. My curiosity grows with each paper's account and then I have to just stop and think of other things. A friend and I are trying a new place for lunch today; celebrated chef, great reviews, sweeping terrace for al fresco dining. Although I hate to leave the comfort and excellent service of our regular haunt, I don't mind so much. The bill of fare is French and that's my one requirement.

Apparently M. Stern was your run of the mill conservative banker and from a well-known and fabulously rich family. An adventurer- big game hunting in Africa and such, but his sex life was a kinky little secret. What other secrets do you suppose he had? Friends, family and business associates have been interviewed and many initially supposed his death had been brought about by the Russian mafia as revenge for an investment deal now gone horribly sour. That is until they heard about the latex bodysuit.

It's much too hot to wear my beautiful new blazer even if it is handkerchief-weight linen. To see me in this glorious confection and the matching shirt I had made is to die of sinful ecstasy- like poor Edouard Stern, I imagine. But wait, you'll never guess who the security cameras picked up exiting his underground parking garage. The trench-coated and sunglassed figure of his erstwhile girlfriend, one Mlle. Cecile Brossard. She was in a big hurry and tore out into the streets in her grey Mercedes. It was discovered that she later hired a taxi and drove to Milan where she boarded a flight to Australia.

There might be some drama today I can tell you, if we're made to wait for a table. They refuse to take reservations at this new place- the idiots. Perhaps they enjoy incurring the wrath (formidible) of those stylish and social New Yorkers who though never really hungry as such, can transform into bloodthirsty animals if made to queue. Not that it's any of my affair, but if it were I would mention that surrounding M. Stern's latex-encased form lay a pool of blood and neat little bullet holes had penetrated his chest, stomach and head. A friend recalled that Stern had occasionally enjoyed the delights of a call-girl he referred to as simply 'Latex'. It was later discovered that Cecile Brossard, apart from being a crack shot from her many days practicing at the local gun range is still quietly listed on the books of a certain upmarket agency- her code name is 'Alice' and her speciality is dressing up as a leatherclad S and M dominatrix.

My own hectic day looms before me and I find I must put these varicoloured newspapers with their lurid headlines on some high shelf out of sight and mind. She's made a full confession, Cecile, and is now in custody but refuses to supply a motive. Why do you think she did it? I am now absurdly late for lunch and will be forced to wear something quite simple, which is probably for the best. I guess I could always just carry the jacket...

We were eight at dinner and it was cosy and sweet. One of those grand New York flats that ramble on and on; endless passages leading to high-ceilinged rooms and everywhere crammed priceless objets d'art and other treasures. Our host had thrown together this impromptu though lavish meal with the help of his new-ish girlfriend and it was really a pleasure to see him basking in this newfound love. For that was the reason we were all invited, to feast on pure requited love and roast lamb and other rare delights. But it would be my luck to land next to what must surely be the dourest specimen on earth. A civil servant dressed in rumpled wool accessorised by a rather large chip on his shoulder. He was one of those unfortunates who, with life unfulfilled, only aim to see the point. To do a thing for sheer pleasure is to him a wasted act. His list of such squanderings includes reading novels, days spent at the beach, going for a stroll, and spending money. No colours touch him; to beauty, he is blind. I began to imagine a man who drinks only when thirsty and whose midnight couplings (Lord, I pity the woman) are occasioned by only the most fervent desire to procreate. He may have been surprised to find himself at this glittering table surrounded by some of the most notorious pleasure seekers; he may have yearned for a quick retreat to his native chamber or monastic cell or wherever his kind hole up, but it did not halt his tongue. Argumentative and coarse, he laid bare his opinions, such as they were, for all to see, that we may benefit from his venerable wisdom- the oracle at Delphi.

Out came dish after dish of the most sublime tastes and smells and colours. All of it excellently prepared and all of it, to the mind of my neighbour- although how I got in there I'll never know, utterly useless. From the far end of the table the talk began to centre on the city's heat wave and do you know I think I must be psychic, because the train naturally led to summer homes and getaways and the boorish groan I heard on my left had been my silent prediction. Needless to say we were all exchanging highly charged glances down the table. One guest stuck out her tongue but Boor didn't see.

Just where he came from is anyone's guess, and he loitered till the very end. It was clear that he despised us all. When others disagree with our mode of life it's tolerable; when they're moved to judgement it stings. I know I speak for the others at that dinner when I say that when you've dressed yourself in your best 'summer dinner at home' outfit and your genius host has seen to it that your glass is always filled, and you know you always look your best in that particular dining room's light- it's quite a bummer to discover that your neighbour (even a rumpled wooly one) despises you.

Have you seen me lately? Haunting the streets in the gloaming, my steps purposeless and wandering, my unseeing gaze falling on nothing in particular. At lunch my food goes untouched and finally I have to leave, just get out of there and walk. Anywhere. Dinner last night with friends was a joke. I can't recall a thing they said and I'm sure I was the picture of distraction. I have to be careful here because I know I can work myself up into quite a state. But reminders are everwhere I turn. Even the new novel I ordered is thick with the renewal of past love. A love once dead on the vine now revived. But who knows where that will end.

I spend hours imagining, daydreaming about what could have been- what still can be, possibly? Oh, but that's just what I want to avoid. Nothing good can come of this sort of fantasising. But what if she's grown tired of her life in Los Angeles? It's easy to see how one could. New York is much more her type of town and practically speaking, she's kept her apartment here. What if she misses me dreadfully and life for her has no meaning... Stop that right now!

Perhaps I should make a list of all the reasons it could never work. She's an actress for one and you know how they are. They need constant ego massaging and unflagging support whilst they cope with the vagaries of a fickle industry. But I'd give her that, wouldn't I? Without question. And with great pleasure. Okay, what else? Let's see, she's more famous than I am. But is she really? Besides, so what. Let's face it, we make a smashing couple. Hmm, short list. I wish I could say that there would always be the temptation of other men and that she'd worry about my fidelity and 'switching teams', but that's no longer even an issue, is it?

I guess I'll take a walk to clear my head...

The first. First and foremost. My Eve and my alpha. The Big Bang of my tender youth. In my memories still standing with her head slightly tilted and the beginning of a smile creeping across those incredibly soft lips. Une petite boheme with untamed hair and unfettered breasts. Skin like milk, quivering, and all over gooseflesh at the lightest touch- a mere prick could render her defenseless. Days and nights of whispers and caresses and gentle teasing, always careful not to overturn the coffee table, its gleaming glass top supporting a delicate pride of porcelain lions. Days and nights of stolen moments, of blissfully aching limbs, our bodies slick with sweat. Days and nights of dreaming of forever. With her touch she taught me to love. Our hearts became one, our thoughts commingled, our hands and lips conjoined- we came together.

Much later. Her retreating figure one snowy night when she had decided and my fate had been cast... The tears and disbelief and my heedless pursuit down the many stairs and out into the cold... The taillights of a taxi disappearing in the distance... But of these things she never knew.

And the seductress. From the not so distant past whose intoxicating scent of jasmine still lingers on the cushions. Whose long legs I can even now see thrown over the arm of the chair, a shoe dangling from her toes. Une femme des reves tout a coup dans mes bras. The honey-voiced seductress, silent across from me at the table, preserving the honey. Our legs touching, hands seeking out other hands. Those beguiling grey eyes resting on mine; piercing me, beckoning me, deceiving me all at once. Promises spilled forth dripping in the honey. Seriously, she could make a man renounce queen and country. In a cloud of jasmine she inches closer. So close, so close. To say what? No words are necessary. All the answers to life's greatest mysteries lay in that little hollow at the base of her neck waiting to be discovered, explored. And all that man need ever know can be found along the undulating line from one graceful shoulder to that sweet spot at the back of her knee...

The mind reels, and the heart quickens. Both of these women will be passing through New York at the end of the month. The goddess of my youth ( it's been 15 years since we've even spoken) and the siren from about 5 minutes ago, lately of Hollywood screen and stage, who made me rediscover so much. The fact that they'll both be here during Gay Pride Week is just the final touch of irony.

Into love and out again
In a dance as old as time.
Many's the heart was cleft in pain
And now so too is mine.

I was booked for an all day shoot and the photographer was one whose work I greatly admired, not that anyone asked for my approval- I never did reach that stage. But I was certainly impressed and vowed to be on time and extremely professional. New York was proving to be a much tougher nut to crack than Paris had been, and I felt daily the strain of starting from scratch. It was as if I was now being forced to pay for the easy and quick success I had taken for granted. Today I can pick out any number of male models with my body type- which is to say lean, but a few years ago- okay ten, sadly the trend went toward the overly muscled. The work-out look. Think Marcus Schenkenberg and Tyson Beckford. To give them their due, my agency at the time believed the tide would turn and was even then 'filling the stable' with the precursers to the new lean look so heavily featured in magazines today.

Arriving at the studio, on time and freshly scrubbed, I had the surprise of my life. The 'girl' shooting with me would be the great Carmen del' Orifice, one of the most iconic figures in the fashion world- obviously the masterstroke of some art director. I could not begin to describe all that I felt just talking to her and the knowledge that I would be interracting and posing with her for the entire day was entirely too much to take in. She was already there when I walked in and from across the studio she boomed, "of course he's GOR-geous!" I stammered something along the lines of, "What an honour it is to work with you," and she replied with yet another compliment. Back and forth we went like some comedy routine. Naturally we got on well and spent all of the down time (when we weren't changing outfits) talking and giggling like old friends. We parted late that day, exhausted, mostly from laughing and holding our stomachs.

Carmen had many stories to tell and not just about her extraordinary fifty year modelling career. She is a woman who made time for a life far and away from the camera. To enjoy all that this world has offered up to us is her advice for everyone. And now mine too. I decided that that would be my last modelling job for a while, and the fact that I never did return (except for a few in and out things) is proof of how full my life became. Suddenly other talents and interests and desires began to shape my world. Today when I see Carmen we never speak of fashion or 'work', instead mostly we talk about gardening.

This week Carmen turns 74 and she is still as vibrant as ever. Happy Birthday, cara mia.

The streets of lower Manhattan were teeming with yellow taxis and the normally desolate stretch of Wooster Street between Houston and Canal became virtually impassable. There were pedestrians everywhere causing more than the usual traffic delay and the occupant of one of the stalled taxis craned his neck from the back seat window and could see no end to the madness. Deciding to pay off the driver and walk the last two blocks the elegant passenger strolled toward the art gallery where the party was being held. There was no mistaking the venue. The crowd had begun to spill into the street in a riot of Vivienne Westwood and 'urban chic' costumes. The latecomer, dressed in the more discreet fashions of Costume National, thought with satisfaction that amid the more flamboyant guests his arrival would go unnoticed by the paparazzi whose cameras were ever searching for colour and light. He was right and even slipped past a couple of well-known P.R. mavens unrecognised. The gallery was enormous and every inch of wall space covered by the photographs of Terry Richardson who is probably best known for his 'heroin chic' ad campaigns for famous fashion houses. Only a select few had ever been invited to see his other work which ran toward fetishism and the darker side of sex- usually with himself prominently featured in the photos. It was to debut this work that a gallery in Wooster Street had splashed on a fresh coat of Atrium white paint, thrown open its doors and despatched a team of publicists to work their phones and email to ensure that this night would be a resounding success. This same gallery apparently was besieged with complaints from the staff during the preliminary hanging; no strangers to controversial art, but decidedly uneasy around such blatant and offensive pictures, they took a bit of issue. The gallery owners, a caring lot, granted paid leave throughout the month-long showing to those individuals who would rather not spend their workdays assailed by images, glossy and enlarged, of cumshots, tranny intercourse and penetration by double-headed dildoes. The elegant latecomer was able to catch these titbits of gossip as he stood at the drinks table while trying hard to appear urbane and unaffected by all that that swam about him. He began to focus on the faces of the crowd. The expressions he saw were varied and largely inscrutible but he detected a sense of discomfort behind them and felt instantly reassured that he was not the only one. He also realised why the sidewalk outside was more crowded than the gallery.

It was a pleasantly warm night and the chardonnay was excellent. Once outside again the elegant gentleman was hailed by a few of his art world acquaintances and spent some time in catching up on all the revolutions that had recently occurred in this milieu, pausing every now and then to graciously pose for a picture now that the initial onslaught of flashbulbs had died down. Perhaps it was the chardonnay, but he began to feel the excitement of the night and could appreciate the glamour it tried so desperately to exude. The celebrated host had reappeared dressed in his habitual jeans and soiled vest, his eyes hyperthyroidic behind large thick glasses. An entourage of sorts accompanied him. What they wore was much too elaborate to describe here involving as it did many layers and themes and historical references. At one point much later the elegant gentleman was approached by the artist himself and as it had been some years since the two had laid eyes on each other spent a few minutes in the what-have-you-been-up-to and have-you-seen-so-and-so duet that is common in any city. It was then that the artist asked, "So what did you think of the new stuff?"

It was ironic that there were suddenly no taxis to be found and the group of slightly tipsy partyseekers were obliged to make its way north slowly on foot. One of the number, a tall elegant gentleman, had suggested they repair to the rooftop bar of a nearby hotel and the idea being generally and heartily approved the group had ambled on assaulting the tranquil night with the sounds of clicking stillettos and the unmistakable phutphutphut of several flip-flops on asphalt.

I hate it when these moods fall over me. It's like a cloud wafting in through the windows and obscuring all semblance of order and direction in my life. And look at me, I have every reason to be blissfully satisfied- I should go about singing in the streets, I really should, and yet at this very minute I can't think of what to do to fill my night. Oh believe me, I know all the Saturday night options out there, I just can't be bothered. Apathetic, that's what I am, what I've become, and you've no idea how I detest that word. Let's see, I could whip up something sumptuous and complicated in the kitchen. A bit of chopping, some recipe thumbing, that might take an hour or two. Soup, even. That takes forever. But who wants to eat soup? Not I! I'm not even sure it's really food. Besides, after that, what? Into me jimjams and nighty-night? I wish I had a good book to read. A sweeping epic from the likes of Dickens or even Tom Wolfe, a real page-turner to make me forget about the long, long hours ahead of me. Unfortunately, I've already read their every line. Twice. Frederick Forsyth is out. I promised myself no more as something about his stories always makes me paranoid that my own phone lines are tapped and that some dodgy character is lurking just behind my door. There must be some great irony in sitting in a room, every corner filled with books and still having absolutely nothing to read. Well now, here's a controversial thought; why not just go out after all? What's the point of staying in amid these bare cupboards? I always think that I go out too much (and have become, although not regretably, less discriminating about where), but actually, I've not been out since when? Sometime last week, I think, and surely that's quite average. Everybody's going to that party tonight for Terry Richardson's opening and although his pictures are, let's face it, sick and disturbing, the crowd will definitely be fun. What should I wear, then? Nothing too sexy or they'll think I'm part of his band of degenerates. Okay; blazer, jeans and flip-flops. I can be tailored and chic and still be casual and cool. Let's see, if it's 8 o'clock now, ten minutes to shower and dress, that gives me a couple of hours- don't want to be too early. Two hours. What can I do to eat up two hours? How about re-potting that ficus? I have been putting that off for weeks, haven't I? I wish there was something really great on television. A gritty crime drama or a Dame Edna special to while away this dreadful twilight. How do people get through it?

Along the American southeastern coast there lies an ever-expanding stretch of land. Like the magnolia trees that bloom there, Savannah, Georgia seems to grow larger and wider each season. It was once a small town with nothing really to proclaim itself. Sugar refining, farms and latent racism were the only industry to be found there. Of course, being a port city there was always the comings and goings of ships large and small bearing exciting treasures from afar. This was not so long ago. Today this 'city' boasts an internationally hailed design school- Savannah College of Art and Design, some of the country's best golf courses and unspoilt beaches, and the vacation homes of a surprising number of Hollywood celebrities. Savannah's quirky charm and the eccentric mores of its residents have been the subject of novels and films and is it any wonder that tourism is now listed as its greatest industry.

About ten or fifteen years ago my mother decided to make this place her home. Naturally I protested. The idea of adding some obscure southern town, indistinct on any map, to my frequent flyer account did not sit well with me. Not to mention that travelling there from anywhere in the world would involve a bothersome connection, often two. I have since changed my views. I dearly love this town.

I've just spent a week there with my family and our reunion, a pleasant event in any city, was made even more so by the lush floral vistas and the stately antebellum architecture that surrounded us there. We took lingering walks along cobblestoned streets steeped in history and inhaled the heady scent of lilac and rose. We dined well on the freshest seafood and ordered strong fruity drinks with umbrellas in them. And in the evenings I would take leave of my family and sample a bit of the nightlife there. Clubs for lounging, clubs specialising in blues, live bands, clubs offering 80's music (always a hit with me), and bars, bars, bars. This is one of the only two cities- the other being New Orleans, where it is perfectly legal to take away your drink as you hop from bar to bar.

The design school, SCAD, is the cause of so many of the glorious changes in Savannah with more than 20,000 students from all over the world. They come and sometimes after graduation they stay and open shops and cafes and galleries. Their presence, and the dollars they bring has thoroughly changed the social dynamic. There is an art scene now, one every inch as sophisticated as the one in your city or mine.

For many years I would arrive from London or Paris or Milan or New York (oh I get around) and suddenly feel as if I've entered a time warp. Nothing had changed since about 1965. Everone moved as if steeped in treacle and from their mouths oozed the most indecipherable sounds. Their eyes would cast over me dressed in my ultramodern cosmopolitan garb (lots of Yohji Yamamoto at the time) and they would just stare, transfixed at the sight. I'm sure my accent, amalgamated as it was, proved just as puzzling to them as theirs to me. Today we all get on. I think the people of Savannah have come a long way and now accept change and embrace differences, generally speaking. As for me, I've mellowed a bit and so has my fashion sense and ability to adapt my speech pattern. One must bend, you see.

For three nights in a row I had the same taxi driver. This has happened before in Savannah, where apparently I'm the only one without a driving liscence.

I ran into an acquaintance from New York, a South African who had mysteriously disappeared from our scene a couple of years ago. We none of us knew where he had gone off to. It seems he had fallen in love with a Savannian and the two now live in a renovated old Victorian with live oak trees covered in Spanish moss in the back garden.

James Brown had come to Savannah to perform in a free concert in Forsyth Park. I met a German there, a tourist who actually lives in Miami but had heard so much of this place he had to see it for himself. Together we listened to the rousing music and swayed with the crowd and eventually found our steps directed away from the throng. Dinner was delicious and quick. We left each other the next day, each of us bound in different directions, our heads still full of lilac and rose...