Two hot days in London and out come the flesh, the flash and the hankies. Outside of June, random city sneezes are suspect. In June, they're mandatory, thanks to rising pollution trapping everything at head height, from pollen and nasty germs to BO. At other times, (flu epidemics excepted) a snivel is tantamount to standing beneath Nelson's Column with a banner saying "I love cocaine". And as if being splattered with nose goo on the Underground twice a day weren't bad enough, hanky etiquette is a fashion minefield.

Uncle Ted was humming to himself on the terrace on Sunday. A thoughtful silence had descended upon the barbecue. Ted had just revealed: "There's a TV show about the Battle of Britain on next week. They say I'm in it." This was pretty surprising, as he had been in the army. "They say, too, that an actor is playing me in the film about it. They asked me who I thought would be right and I said Dirk Bogarde. Yes, he's rather good, Bogarde . . ."

I gawped at him; others looked away biting their lips. Staring at him was the wrong option. He rifled through the pockets of not-too-clean trousers and with a pleased "humph" pulled out the hanky-from-hell. White in parts, rainbow-coloured in the crispy creases, it took him several moments of evaluation to find a clear space to blow into.

Then he started singing "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles" in a not-too-bad vibrato.

At the other end of the olfactory spectrum (where septums have cosmetic surgery but are never, ever dug at with dirty fingernails) are summer parties in W1. "Bond Night - A sparkling evening in Bond Street" is three years old. The shops in the area - Gucci, Asprey, Prada - stay open until 9pm. Shop girls with posh mummies and polo ponies offer glasses of champagne. It's a fun night of flash meets flesh and this year it was on the night that my solicitors held their summer party. Men in bespoke suits were talking drunkenly about money and boats. I had starved myself in the expectation of copious smoked salmon and puff pastry. However, the fashion now is for dumbed-down, MTV canapes. Around came trays of "mini" fish and chips and "mini" hot dogs. It doesn't matter how you serve hot dogs. You can call them "mini" and put them on silver platters, but they're still made of the same thing as their bigger, American cousins - pigs' lips and backsides.

All along New Bond Street a dozen Rolls-Royces stood gleaming in the evening sun - part of a best car competition. There were vintage Rollers and convertibles. One thing the cars had in common was the fretful gazes of their owners, who came in only two varieties: old and very tanned or young and slightly less tanned. One of the older types was about to show me "the wonderful merits of a vintage design" when he started to sneeze.

His lips creased back, his nostrils opened. With a monumental act of will-power he held the sneeze at bay until he found his hanky. I stood spellbound by the strange beauty of the moment. A flick of his Cartier-laden wrist unravelled a sheath of spotless, bright white, monogrammed linen. A balletic roll of the elbow brought the kerchief directly to his nose.

"Aa-choo." I joined in the perfectly timed chorus of "bless yous". Then I watched as the man pinched the hanky shut with two fingers, never showing the slightest interest in its contents. No little peek to see just how badly his sinuses had been blocked. No grand unpeeling. He just held it away from himself (little finger curled, teacup-style) and dropped it into a suit pocket. Which left me wondering: How do Bond Street types keep their hankies clean? What would happen the next time he sneezed? Are the glove compartments of Rolls-Royces full of used-once hankies, or is this where the supply of unused ones is kept?