My life in pictures........

If it was a movie I would have run down the road and across the walking bridge to Tate Modern and along the embankment, under the glittering lights, hung low and bright and blue in the trees, and into the British Film Institute. I would have turned with a pleading look to the girl with the clip-board standing by the door and she would have smiled, said 'it's OK, you've missed nothing' and let me in. I would have stumbled in the half light to my seat and Alexander Payne, the director of About Schmidt, Sideways and out-soon, The Descendants, would have paused from discussing George Clooney's performance in his new film, looked directly at me and said, 'there's a seat here,' gesturing to the front row. After a fascinating talk about his life and work, when the clapping had died down and we were all reaching for our coats, the enigmatic, gently greying, American would have stepped forward and said, 'Hi.' He would have smiled and hoped I'd enjoyed his talk. I'd have apologised for being late, the buses, the traffic, my crazy madcap life. He would have laughed at my amusing story and asked if I lived in London, if ..... if I was doing anything, how he was having a crazy time of meet and greet and premiers and dinners at the London Film Festival and how it would just be so nice to go for a quite drink, if I wasn't busy that was.....

But it's not a movie, so I ran down the embankment, the cold night air rasping my throat, my bag heavy on my shoulder, sweating my way through the early evening lovers and theatre going tourists who blocked my path, and into the BFI where the girl with the clipboard said the email I thrust at her wasn't good enough and that I would have to go to the box office on the other side of the building to collect my ticket first. At the box office they couldn't find my ticket but they did find a return. Eventually. I ran back to the girl on the door with the clipboard who said I could go in but not without the usher. She went to find the usher. The usher ushered me in to an empty seat next to a man with a beard who kept texting. Alexander Payne didn't notice me. The talk was good though.

Top tip: for dark humour with gorgeous George, go see The Descendants, coming soon to a theatre near you.

Do or Dye......

Is it me or is Rupert Everett looking more and more like Sam the Eagle, from the Muppets, with that beaky nose and down-turned mouth? Don't get me wrong, I like Sam and I have a soft spot for Rupert. When I lived in New York we used to breakfast together at my favourite cafe in the West Village, Les Deux Gamin. I say 'together' but it was more along the lines of sharing the same, small space, indeed often the same table. (Several tables in fact, it's not called a village for nothing, I was once accidentally engaged in conversation by Caroline Bassett Kennedy in 'Tea & Sympathy', when she mistook me for Ruper's lunching companion, but that's a whole other story....) This was just before the heady period post-My Best Friend's Wedding, when he loitered in the shadows of his once glorious hey-day. He wore a battered-leather flying jacket, tousled hair with a hint of grey and was always accompanied by his dog, Moise, a black lab, with whom he would share his petit dejeuner. Ordering in French, he usually had the 'Tartine': two, long shanks of toasted baguette, homemade jam and unsalted butter. He would read, I would write.We both drank coffee. And he looked pretty damn good before his return to the spotlight and the ubiquitous hair dye. Why is it, no matter how rich or famous a man might be, if he dyes his hair, it always has the same plummy, chestnut hue. From Paul McCartney to Ricky Gervais, they all look awful. Watching Rups, sporting a matching beard and hair combo, on 'Who Do You Think You Are', the other night, I was reminded of one of those upside down heads.......an upside down head that looked a lot like Sam the Eagle.

You'd think with gorgeous George Clooney leading the way, and our own Phillip Schofield keeping it real, no man would waste his time or money getting a full-head of highlights or opting for the all over conker-glow so beloved of the midlife males in crisis. From the salt and pepper sprinkle to the silver-fox mop-top, men should just luxuriate in the fact that their sex looks good in grey.

Top tip: Perfect summer movie? Go see Hearbreaker, Vanessa Paradis is Johnny Depp in a dress, Romain Duris is drop-dead gorgeous and it's very, very funny.

Coming Down To Earth

I went to see the movie Up In The Air and I really enjoyed it. Aging delightfully, gorgeous George Clooney was just that (refreshingly grey haired instead of the ubiquitous auburn glow men-of-a-certain age so often sport these days), there's a bit of the unexpected and some of the lines were laugh out loud, in a good way. I don't want to spoil the plot but there's a bit where the young girl says to the old girl something like: 'I hope I look like you when I'm your age'......which had me rolling in the aisle because I've heard that phrase myself. More than once. What do you say? What is the correct response to the back-handed compliment, made with all the naive vim and vigour only the young can get away with?

To miss-quote The Eagles, the lines on the mirror are the lines on my face, there's no getting away from it. So I suppose there comes a point, it would seem, when looking good eventually gets tacked onto 'for your age'. As the years pass it's unavoidable. I do it myself with Dames Judi and Helen, Marianne Faithfull, Julie Christie and many more top women who look great....for their age. Although right now, with the temperature dropping and the threat of more snow overhead 'you look alive for your age' might be more appropriate. I scrutinise necks, jaw-lines and upper arms, counting the lines like rings on a slice of aged oak. I applaud the 'laugh-lines' of others and salute the celebrity brave enough to wear a frown. It doesn't help to be confronted by my bathroom shelves, buckling under the weight of age-defying lotions and potions apparently able to stop the 7 signs of aging. Only 7? Suckered into buying toning, tinting, body-sculpting creams that promise a younger, smoother brand new me.

But I'm not up in the air about that. Who doesn't enjoy a bit of pampering, a soak in a rejuvenating seaweed bath, or the heavenly scent of body oil infused with Moroccan roses, whether they work miracles or not. We're all grown-ups, do we actually believe that the lovely Liz Hurley is really a stranger to the needle, and maintains her radiant look on just a thimble full, albeit a highly nutritious, organic, grown-in-her-garden thimble full, of watercress soup? Looking good, or the belief that one is making oneself look good, does raise our spirits. So we feel better. So we look better. It is of course different for men though. For them old, fat, grizzled equals shaggable (see Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart, imagine Cathy Bates pulling Jake Gyllenhaal in a similar roll....) as the song says, 'Keep young and beautiful if you want to be loved.' Apparently, lipstick sales surged after 9/11, a phenomenon first noticed during the Great Depression. Red lipstick, heels and a great rack, mad men are mad for it.

Top tip: Laura Mercier's Poppy lipstick will put a smile on anybody's face.