Diary – 7 April 2006

The most satisfying night of recent weeks had to be the poetry reading in the British Library organised by Josephine Hart, a woman born to fill us with her infectious love of poetry. It was standing room only, as Evelyn and Lynn Rothschild discovered, arriving late for the reading of Shelley by Dominic West, Byron by Edward Fox and Keats by Bob Geldof. Before the start it had been explained that Bob and Jeanne Marine (his traffic-stoppingly lovely girlfriend) had been in India, where they had been hit by celebratory henna bombs, leaving their hair a rich reddish brown. Back in London, Bob reached for the Daz to sort his barnet out — but this turned his hair from a dark henna into a startling pink. As Bob stood to read ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ an unfamiliar expression crossed his face: was the pink responsible for what I took to be a disarming hint of g