Beau Brummell described how a fashionable chap of the time might rise late and spend his day indulging stylish whims and sartorial dilemmas until settling in to a night of high revelry. Yesterday's schedule was the nearest I ever get, interspersed with bouts of Boris biking, and a smattering of aristocrats.

Agent Massey. AKA Bro' Brummel.

Lunched with Agent Massey at Le Caprice yesterday, and as drizzle turned back to sun over Mayfair,  an afternoon of full-on Brummelling began. We swapped notes on tight Acne jeans and open neck shirts/chest rugs stances deployed this day, as we sipped our Gavi de Gavi. Got Massey to do a STYLE STANCE outside, which shall appear tomorrow. After dessert wine, we bowled to Allen's on Mount Street where Jim was picking up meat. I on the other hand dropped off a pony at the conveniently placed Connaught Hotel.

O'Leary entrenched in 37.

We split. I bought Montecristo cigars from Sauter (click), before sauntering to Burb's to collect a Trench 37 (click) for Lord O'Leary that I'd had tweaked, plus a house check 'overall' for friends' sproggit.

Mounted a Boris, (with all the gear looked like a heritage rag-'n'-bone man) and headed north to visit Trunk (click), a menswear shop on Cliltern Street. STYLE STANCED the founder, Mats, and shall do something on him next week. Got PR side-tracked by the PRs Monocle  scandinavian style offices and her PRs white wine policy, resulting in becoming a trifle late to meet Lady Liza Campbell at Cecconnis. Quite bad. (L.L. and I are North African mountain fitness vets who needed to reacquaint after my recent Moroccan mission).

Lady Campbell in Highland action.

Before one could say Boris Bike, she'd bumped into a friend. Which is what happens if you leave quality unattended. I arrived to find Bill Nighy had joined the scene. He'd just collected his Carrera opticals, which were rather good. He wears a good suit too it should be noted.

Bill breezed, I got the bill and Lady Liza and I strode the short distance to Faggionato Fine Arts (click) on Albermarle Street. L.L.'s studio mate and friend Tarka Kings (click) was opening her 'Lingua Franca' exhibition there. (Been obsessed with the words Lingua Franca since Holden (click) uttered them in Morocco last week: Lingua Franca. Lingua Franca. Domez-vous? Domes-vous?).

'Amsterdam'. Chaine D'ancre or cock and balls abstraction?

Her large pieces rendered with fine, repeated pencil and crayon were quite striking for the sheer scale of them compared to the medium. The smaller ones, less so. I'm not gonna try and critique them, as not immersed in scene. Good exhibition title makes all the difference though. What was fascinating was the assembled art set (one of 3 or 4 that exists). L.L. pointed out a Marquess, a Viscount, and an Earl (her brother). The art lot never fail to amaze me with their lack of dress sense, ditto the toffs. Sorry to revert to type, but it's all I've got to hand. Being well-bred is a licence to not care much about ones garb it seems. Fair enough. Also to have quite strange face shapes and get away with it. Some large face formats work. The smaller ones, less so. A steady procession of fellas came up to greet L.L.Campbell, (she did look double fit it has to be said). They were all rather keen on her as far as I could see, such as one 6'5" Lord Melchett type, called Bunter. He wore a belt with a large capital B on it, most handy for name recognition. We perused the work and were met by further types. Ties were right out of favour, as were new shoes. Hair styles railed against conformism, sanity and reality of coverage. Names were authentic, as was the route-one approach to flirting, (with L.L, not I). Dinner invites abounded (for L.L not I), and it soon became apparent one was outgunned on every side by sheer upper class enthusiasm.

Correct waiting stance for Addison's.

It had been a long and multi-faceted day of Mayfairic capers and I sensed my exit was near. As Lord Bunty lurched about, appeared drunk and oblivious to others, manners and anything but L.L.,  I elected to call an E5 Addisons air-lift (post code activated driver summons). Made mental note that DP E5 (dinner party E5) No. 3, 4, or 5 shall certainly now have aristocratic attendance. I puffed on a Monte', struck a non-art/aristo' pose and pondered would Brummell have used Addisons much? I think so. To a man in town, bowling is fundamental while Boris-bike-galloping a boon on occasions of time-autism. However its is the mid-evening Addisons air-lift that marks out a modern Dandy's grasp of timing: Leave before things get too, too messy for dignity to be retained. Beau would be large-ing it in the East by 10 o'clock I am certain. By 11 p.m I was in the Turkish, then back on the Viognier in my newly re-minimalised kitchen.

TS safely in the Easter quarter.