There's only one thing you can do when the man who sorts out your tax return tells you he's getting married. Go to his wedding. There's no other option. Even thinking about it, well, not only is it unfriendly, it's downright dangerous, he knows my financial make up better than me, all the angles as well, and on top of that, I can't, I just can't face the the deadening misery of filling it in myself, it's also very complicated. I don't sit comfortably next to anything complicated; I wriggle, I squirm, I lose my patience.

Decision made, now what to wear. I have no suit. In my line of work, most people would n't take me seriously if I barrelled in wearing a shirt and tie. Out of necessity, therefore, I've had to assemble a 'look'. Piece together bits and pieces, try to put over a sensibility. Not that straightforward, as I said earlier, no suit, not even a tie to be that foundation piece on which everything follows. I'd like to picture myself going places as if at that very moment I'd just stepped off a yacht at Cannes; the reality is more I've jumped ashore on to Canvey Island from a tugboat.

I work on this principle: throw it together and see what happens. I've done that and out popped a look; so tomorrow, it will not be untidy jester's motley, it'll be this: part Central European pre 1989 dissident intellectual, part crumpled, moody, rive gauche philosopher, and a healthy dose of upper west side gallery owner / editor. All this for a wedding