SATURDAY, JULY 23

Arrived in London and went straight to Mr. Udeshi’s. He had a bolt of fabric, a big check pattern, that he was pitching for a fall suit. He will likely convince me. Meanwhile, having changed from airplane overnight gear, I was wearing a Udeshi gold/amber jacket with a shocking red lining; brown slacks from, as it happens, Browns; pink striped shirt and pink striped socks from Paul Smith. My shoes are tan from Fratelli Rossetti. For men, there’s really only two fashion choices: British or Italian. Which one I wear depends on where I am.

SUNDAY, JULY 24

Still in London and it’s ideal weather: sunny and crisp. I’m grateful to shiver all day in a blue blazer, polo shirt and Old Navy white slacks. I have dinner with a dozen journalists covering the Murdoch meltdown. I’m in a white shirt with Mr. Udeshi’s gold/amber jacket and a white pocket square. My companion has somehow talked me into buying a beautiful silk Charvet foulard in a blue paisley. I try draping it in many ways, but can’t escape the feeling that I look like a rabbi. So no foulard tonight — or ever.

MONDAY, JULY 25

Early in his British years, Rupert Murdoch was invited on a hunting weekend and showed up, much to the merriment of the other guests, in a spiffy new tailor-made outfit. Hurt by the ribbing he took (in proper society one should not work too hard at looking right) and once again feeling like a hopeless outsider, he vowed revenge on the British people. He’s often vowed revenge on the Brits and is undoubtedly doing so now. Anyway, I was measured today for a country suit by Mr. Udeshi, the large check pattern, that will likely bring me the kind of mockery that greeted Murdoch. Since I will most frequently be wearing my country suit in Manhattan, I’m bound to double the guffaws. Still, there is nothing that makes you think you can take on the world as much as a well-made suit, especially (at least during the fitting) an audacious one.

TUESDAY, JULY 26

In an effort to look particularly British for an on-camera interview on Waterloo Bridge (Parliament is in the background and Murdoch’s fortress at Wapping is up the river), I wear a Richard James pinstripe suit with deep blue shirt and yellow tie. But the effect, I suddenly realize, is much more mafioso. The Brits have a “What me, worry?” look. This could have something to do with the boy-like way they wear their ties with the big knot and ending above the belly. Whereas I look sinister, if not like an assassin — one of Murdoch’s many assassins. Lunch is at the gastropub Anchor & Hope, where a splatter from my roast bone marrow ruins my yellow tie.