Champagne socialisers

Finagling my way into the Booker Prize shortlist party this week, held at the V&A, I was disappointed at quite how corporate an affair it was. Unlike last year, where authors, editors and booksellers engaged in earnest discussion of the fortunate six, the hall was largely filled with guests of Man Booker plc and I heard rather more talk of the credit crunch than literature.

Still, everyone seemed to obey the little signs on all the statues requesting that we not leave our drinks on them and I saw no canapés ground into things which probably probably require a little more care than just the cool wash and a cupful of fabric conditioner.

The evening was one which now affords little opportunity for name-dropping, although I did chat briefly with Ben Okri, who proved himself to be an astute commentator on the British publishing industry. His last novel, Starbook, was one of the earliest fiction titles on Random House's Ebury imprint, which had hitherto focussed on fairly undemanding lifestyle non-fiction. He said that his reason for entrusting his book to them was that he felt that established literary imprints don't know how to promote their books to a general public indifferent to good writing. Perhaps this is why Pan Macmillan are apparently looking for someone relatively young to run Picador.

I reckon, however, it is retailers who are principally to blame, particularly Waterstones. They cram the front of their shops with 3-for-2s, all promoted at the publishers' expense, and claim this demonstrates their commitment to range bookselling. I imagine they'd be happiest if this was all they sold: it would certainly eliminate the expense of maintaining backlist and employing experienced booksellers.

Other than Ben Okri, the only writer I spotted was one of last year's shortlisted authors, Indra Sinha, prowling unmolested about the place like a depressed big cat. Animal's People fared poorly compared to the rest of the shortlist; sales don't even seem to have afforded him a new pair of sandals, as I'm sure his gnarly toes were poking out of the same pair last year.

All in all, the evening was poor reflection of the enthusiasm of the trade for this year's delightfully unpredictable shortlist. Michael Portillo spoke with more sincere passion than I ever remember him doing in the Commons and it was a disheartening to see with what little interest his speech was attended compared to the endless champagne.

Waiting for the bus home, when I'm wasn't keeping a wary eye on the mammoth rats charging about the undergrowth in the front garden of the house next to my stop, afforded me a nice opportunity for some inter-chapter people-watching. As someone with distinctly limited sartorial instincts, I do sometimes find myself marvelling at the extraordinary apparel of others. I'm not yet enough of an ageing curmudgeon to scoff at what those twenty years younger than me choose to wear and indeed I do find myself reflecting that I've probably missed my chance now to dress with the flamboyance and individuality which is probably an indulgence open largely to the young.

Others, however, would seem not to concur. String vest and bovver boots with tattoos seeping across the forearms are a regular enough outfit, but to see them on a man of pensionable age is distinctly incongruous. I've never been a fan of camouflage patterning, of either the khaki variety or the monochrome urban palette, both because of its connotations and its sheer ugliness, but the latest variation is just comical: trousers with the familiar splotches, but in pinks and purples. Summer fruits camouflage would describe it best, I think. The black shellsuit with metallic silver paisley motif, especially when matched with loafers - never trust a man in loafers - and one of those peculiarly sculpted moustacheless beards which frame the face deserved an award, or at least a grant from an appropriate fund.

But the royal blue satin hooded gown I saw this week was so baffling a choice only the prompt arrival of the bus prevented me from engaging the man sporting it in conversation. I assume he was either a former boxer too broke to update his wardrobe or an official from the sort of organisation presided over by David Icke.

My own crimes against fashion have been musical this week. A little timewarp concentrated on my corner of north London has resulted in repeated airings of my collection of Lynyrd Skynyrd LPs, picked up from the Camden Record Exchange at a time when their stock consisted almost entirely of discarded copies of No Jacket Required.

I blame this brief nostalgic outburst on Susie Boyt, whose account of her obsession with Judy Garland proved surprisingly engaging, especially to someone like me who tends to view musicals as little better than a gross offence against public order. My Judy Garland Life is a perfect example of how any subject can be made fascinating by an elegant writer with a passion. My defences were down, therefore, and I can only be thankful that this wavering of my critical faculties didn't escalate into a desire to listen to Whitesnake again.