I have to fit in a museum, too, so am heading for the Museum of Sex (known as MoSex) on 5th Avenue. The last sex museum I went to was in Amsterdam 30 years ago, and sex has come a long way since then – unlike my sex life, which hasn’t. It’s been so long, they might well make me an exhibit in the museum, so if you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know where to find me.

Who starts queuing for the All You Can Eat Buffet at 5am, for goodness sake? I tell you: they are going to consume every last morsel if it kills them, and when the food runs out, they’ll start on the table leg. Trump wasted so much energy worrying about building a wall to keep immigrants out; all he needed to do transport an army of Texans with a picnic to the border.

Our favorite was Steph’s, in Dean Street, run by the very flamboyant Steph. I was also a member of the Groucho Club, a few doors down, and we would retire there for early evening drinks when we had exhausted all conversation with whomever we descended upon at Steph’s (we once enjoyed a very jolly five-hour lunch with Tony Blackburn).

I thought with Covid we might see a return to the traditional dinner party, albeit with only the people in whose bubble you were allowed to be, but there’s been none of it. Even when the weather turned cold and outdoor dining was the only option, people preferred to don gloves and scarves and watch their hands sticking like Super Glue to a cold champagne glass rather than eat at home.