Australia

Someone asked me yesterday what I'd been doing for the past week. Well, I replied, I went to Australia.

No, I'm not quite sure I believe it either, apart from that I've got the aeroplane ticket stubs to prove it. And the jet lag.

I was Down Under thanks to a serendipitous press trip to go and hear the first orchestral concerts at Uluru, which I'll be writing about in BBC Music Magazine for an upcoming issue. I'm reviewing them for the mag's website www.classical-music.com as well; and I'll be putting up some photos and observations here. What a place. What an adventure.

Breakfast with Lucian

The great artist Lucian Freud was famously protective of his privacy. So it seems ironic that one of his friends close enough to have been part of a weekly breakfast club has broken the first rule thereof and written a tell-all, anecdotal account of the late Freud (pictured in a self-portrait, above), based on their friendship. Good for readers like me who are utterly fascinated by Freud – most importantly by his art but also by the personality that made it – less good, perhaps, for upholding the values of friendship and for the privacy Freud so assiduously, near-on neurotically, created. Not that I'm cynical about the author Geordie Greig's motives, really....

Still, having not read the book yet apart from the tantalising section about Freud's seemingly countless number of children, serialised in The Sunday Times, it was interesting to hear Greig in conversation about his book at the recent Henley Literary Festival. The Mail on Sunday editor, fresh from Ed Milliband firefighting, was nothing like I expected. Fascinating his book might be, fascinating his speaking style is not. Funny, as at least one other account of Greig suggests he's a hugely energetic character. Perhaps those Milliband headaches were taking their toll. His painfully halting, flat delivery seemed at odds with the subject matter, but didn't completely destroy it – it'd be hard to when the conversation covered matters as racy as Freud's numerous lovers, his huge gambling debts and how he liked to drink Earl Grey with lots of milk. By the sounds of it, Greig has put his ability to network to good use, winning over and interviewing Freud's acquaintances in order to untangle the tightly woven veil the artist had drawn over his private life. It's had mixed but mainly good reviews, the main criticism seeming to be that this book is more about the man, than the art; when in fact the man was all about the art. Sometimes, though, you do just want to know how a great artist liked to drink his tea.