The Daily Tracey

In the human whirlpool that was Tracey Emin's private view, I met - somewhere between Isabella Blow and Jarvis Cocker - two fairies from Brixton.

They were friendly girls with jet-black hair and pink lipstick. Tinsel and Twinkle each had a discreet pair of gossamer wings sprouting from their grubby jeans jackets. They both gripped my upper arms and told me that if I truly believed I could have a wish that would come true.

"In Leamington Spa we gave a wish to a man who wanted to find a boyfriend and he got one within a week," said Tinsel encouragingly.

I wished that I could meet Tracey Emin and become her friend. I don't think that's an uncommon desire. Almost everyone you meet who likes Emin and her work seems to be either in love with her, or convinced that they could be really good mates.

"I'm just the most heterosexual girl in the whole world," a journalist who writes for the Financial Times told me. "But I really fancy her." Why? "That picture over there - the one of her with the money, with her legs splayed, trying to stuff it all into her crotch. See? I mean, she's got it."

Tinsel and Twinkle went to see if they could help some of the people queueing in Hoxton Square to get into the White Cube gallery. "Fairy work can be exhausting, but it's rewarding," they said. I burrowed into the thickest portion of the crowd - Will Self, Gilbert and George, Elton John's boyfriend, the Editor of the Independent - and there, suddenly, my wish was fulfilled. Tracey grinned at me. I said it must be amazing. She said it was a bit exhausting. Someone gave her a glass of champagne. She signed my invite. She loves the Evening Standard: she calls it the Daily Tracey. I think we could be friends.

Gilbert, standing next to George in an identical green loden coat and lilac silk tie, said the show was marvellous. Really? I asked. "Oh yes, wonderful, wonderful. Wonderful crowd. And George and I and Marahouk - he indicated a very small man standing next to him - walked here." I asked Marahouk how he found the show. "Very good," he said.

Gilbert pointed out, wisely, that it wasn't the best night to see the show. It wasn't. Once upon a time a young artist's private view in London was a comfortable occasion. The artist would stand in the corner humbly poised to discuss her or his work, while the journalists, a few celebs, some art-buyers, would swig bargain wine and gossip with our backs firmly turned to the walls.

But last night everyone wanted to see what Tracey had done next. It was hard. They were queueing one hundred deep at the door to get in and have a look. Above the bobbing heads Tracey's appliqued slogans appeared like surtitles at the opera. "Every time I fall in love I think christ I'm going to be crucified." "The baby died she was alone her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets." "I am disgusted by your envey". The Daily Mirror has already revealed, in its celeb column, that Tracey Emin's work is "misspelled". None of the 2000 people in Hoxton Square last night would have an argument with that.

Tracey's step-mother, Gulten Emin, told me how she'd spent three weeks sewing the words onto one of Tracey's blankets. The one she pointed at said "Always Alert Always Active" and was covered in silver sperms. "What's it about." "It's all sex," said Gulten giggling nervously. Worth £150,000, that blanket, easily.