As Catherine’s exhibition at the NPG looms, my sittings have moved to early in the morning, although not quite as early as I used to sit for Leonard McComb.   So, I find myself walking through Chelsea past Bram Stoker’s house in St. Leonard’s Terrace.   I remember a cousin of mine saying that when they set up house in Chelsea in the early 1950s it was regarded as bohemian and scandalised her relations who expected them to live in Mayfair.   Hard to imagine now as I pass the merchant bankers on their way to work.   John Morton Morris is very pleased because my portrait is smaller than Sally Clarke’s.   I don’t know how he knows because I haven’t seen either.