Monday 1st June 2026

I’ve always wondered why the Gay Mother’s dusters are so superior. Whatever I order from Amazon isn’t the same… thin and tiny. Like trying to dust with a pocket hanky, provoking of dusting injuries, bruised, knocked fingers.

The Gay Mother’s dusters have always been the mink of dusting… unused by her, of course.

‘We’ve got plenty of dusters,’ she says when I explain what’s in the latest Amazon parcel.

‘Yes, but they seem to be disappearing. I’m trying to find ones as thick and spacious to replace and re-build..’

‘I get them from Givans,’ the Gay Mother says. She means she used to because she hasn’t ordered any for at least ten years.

But Givans … the Gay Mother has been on this Earth of 102 years and I never knew she ordered dusters from Givans.. Givans… they used to be in the King’s Road. Now online… Irish linen. Double damask table napkins. A tea towel is £27. And dusters. £1.99 each. I checked.

So, at last, a luxury outlet for dusters.

Last year the Gay Mother baulked somewhat at asparagus in April and May. I said, ‘You’ve got to have it. There’s nothing else. And it’s incredibly sought after and desirable.’

This year the Gay Mother has suddenly embraced fully the asparagus mono-culture of Spring and early Summer. She ordered a large quantity from Brown and Forrest and, in person, purchased and self-cooked a bunch from Tesco’s.

Last week I did my annual Navarin Printaner. The market in the Far West even had small turnips and carrots. There was a large quantity of the lamb casserole in the end. While we were making the first assault on it, the Gay Mother was telephoning round the neighbourhood: ‘Do you think Colin Partridge would like some?’ Colin Partridge is recently widowed. His lady wife was sadly took in April.

‘It’s meant to do for tomorrow as well,’ I protested.

‘I think I might prefer something else tomorrow,’ the Gay Mother announced grandly, as if she were the Queen Mother at Clarence House.

Such as what, I’m thinking. At a pinch I could menu oeufs au sorrel.

As it happened Colin Partridge sent his son to fetch a portion of the Navarin the next day. There was still a lot left and the Gay Mother changed her mind about it being served to her again in the evening. At least we were spared oeufs au sorrel.

Except that during the second Navarin experience she kept worrying that I hadn’t given Colin Partridge and his son enough. I said, ‘They were lucky to get anything at all,’ which didn’t please . ‘That’s not the right attitude,’ the Gay Mother snapped.

‘What other plans do you have for Colin Partridge’s menus?’ I said somewhat bitterly. ‘You could do him a lasagne.’

It’s well known that any new widower’s driveway is blocked by enthusiastic ladies bearing wholesome re-heatable main courses over which they have slaved. Or indeed food that they might have eaten themselves but have determined to sacrifice instead.

Years ago we knew of such a one who had so many lasagnes he had to set aside a whole room in his house for their storage.

Wednesday 27th May 2028

I was at the core for the Chelsea Flower Show last week. To the Private View this year I added the Sunday preview of the preview, with a huge Beginning of Term Meeting of Members of the Council after a learned tour of the Show by an RHS team leader.

Nothing must be said. It was all incredibly private. What a glorious organisation is the RHS and what burdens it bears so nobly.

The Members of Council had to do the placement for their tables at the President’s Lunch on the Monday. Royston King was given an envelope containing the place names but he scrawled CBE on one of them and OM (or something like that) on another. People from Hospitality, Marketing, Publicity, Fund-raising were trying to explain: Do your placement as for a round table then put the cards back in the envelope in anti-clockwise order.

No reports emerged the next day of placement disaster.

Chelsea Monday must be one of the most gruelling but thrilling days borne by any organisation anywhere. VIP PV in the morning, private drinks receptions etc. Then the President’s Lunch. Guest speakers… 450 lunching. Then a Special Tea for Special Guests…. then… the Royal visit culminating in a Reception which must finish at 7pm. Finally the Gala… and more dinners for 450 or 500 going on in different places.

It’s all intensely private. Nothing must be disclosed. Our Royal person, whom we were commissioned to guide around, was in fact the most Royal person present. One leant into the buggy to address the personage, descended directly from Tsars and Kings, with no common blood, and received in return a devastating aura of Royalty, beyond words or even gestures.

One thing you notice about Royalty at a Reception – whenever you look at them they are engaged in the most intense conversation. Never do they stare into space or seem at a loss. Always, always they have something to say. The other thing is, even if you’d just landed from Mars you’d know that they were different. By their frockage and aura they are not as others.

It was much later that we met Sir Wesling Streeting, a guest at the Gala. I’m glad he was there and could see how Great Britain really works.

Sunday 10th May 2026

I look at the forthcoming programme and can hardly breathe.

On one day in the near future I’ve got a Mem at 11.30, Chelsea at 3.30, followed by dinner at Laura Malcolm’s.

Yet, to some, one is unoccupied, retired. ‘What are you doing?’ they ask.

My basic programme is: washing and ironing the clothes, wearing the clothes, doing exercises, pushing forward on the decor front, bidding in auctions, collecting from auction houses in all corners of the country, phoning restorers, driving to restorers, arranging tradespeople of various kinds, doing Instagram, doing poorlittlerichgays.com, gardening, gardening at the Gay Mother’s, driving all over the country looking for plants, ordering from Amazon, checking, checking again, keeping up with cleaning products, maintaining an anti-moth programme.

It never stops. That’s just the basic programme.

Add to that specific engagements, going to the Gay Mother’s every 3 weeks, charging up the Official Car, valet-ing the Official Car.

In February I dined at Oslo Court. The function was arranged by Piracius Kingdom, the barrister. He’s been known for some years but only recently a regular part of the programme. As a resident of Belgravia he’s incredibly suitable. Also younger and one must have younger friends. I do love lawyers. They’re a law unto themselves and sparkling. I had a former bridesmaid on one side and a KC on the other. Actual conversation. Persons who can think for themselves and do. How we talked and roared.

As for Olso Court… it had been selected because it’s a Jewish favourite. It’s a restaurant in block of flats in St John’s Wood… it’s one of the apartments really. Later I mentioned it to Joshua Baring while we were in another restaurant called Brawn (£100 plus a head). I thought he’d dismiss but no. He adores Olso Court. ‘All the food’s been in the freezer since the 1970s,’ he raved. Exactly. I had a puff pastry pocket filled with salmon cream. Prawn cocktail was a possible 1st course. Amazing. And the decor! Rouched curtains, dainty bedroom colours, baby blue and pink candy stripe, purring with fitted carpet in pale veal. Also £100 a head plus…

Joshua Baring said that all the Baring building projects overran as to budget. Contractors the length and breadth of the country express no surprise at a tripling, even a quadrupling. Lady Baring is currently in restauro and has managed a very modest doubling.

Joshua was planning puddings to take to his brother Bover in the country at the weekend.. carmelised oranges, a lemon meringue pie with a Viennese (?) meringue. No idea what that is. And a third one I can’t remember. Of course one would have done. Or even no pudding at all. Joshua flies all over the world on international Art business (v. mysterious) during the week. On Sunday he left for Singapore and returns via New York. He has functions galore. But cannot possibly fail to spend a Saturday utterly slaving in the kitchen over fiercely complex multiple puddings that have then got to be transported by hand to Haywards Heath.

The detail. The gruelling detail.

Darling Robert Hardman wrote yet another book about Her Late Majesty. It was launched at Hatchards. The Duke and Duchess of Beaufort – so charming. He about 8 feet tall. ‘I will admit I’m the worse for wear,’ he announced. I said, ‘You’d better watch out on those stairs.’ No notice taken of such middle-class caution and second-rateness, of course. I long to get into Badminton. The Duchess didn’t take when I said, ‘I’ll come for the Flower Show,’ which they’re having there.

Lady Susan Hussey was present, fuming re: Andrew Lownie. ‘She wasn’t gaga. I was with her two weeks’ before she died. Anything but gaga.’ ‘Andrew Lownie’s a muck-raker,’ I said, desperate to comfort. I didn’t mention that for some reason Andrew Lownie had once been in my dining room.

Royston King and I carried out an engagement at Winchesterford to do with ‘War Cloister’ as it’s known. It’s by Herbert Baker. Royston fell asleep in the front row during the talk about the restoration which had enthralling technical passages. I loved it. Ladies slaved all through the Winter, even in the dark, re-doing the lettering of all the poor precious Fallen. Robert Nevil would have been in Seventh Heaven – except he seems to have rather gone off the 1st World War.

The morning of the Winchesterford function, Royston had received Princess Anne at Regent’s Park to open the Memorial Garden to Queen Elizabeth 11, who was her mother – as well as Sovereign. She was in cayenne and very approving of the garden apart from No dogs allowed about which she appeared quite cross and mentioned it several times including in her speech. Of course she’s utterly great.

Royston had been invited to the reception at Buckingham Palace later the same day for Her Late Majesty’s 100th birthday – except it wasn’t really because she’d passed away. But in perfect Royal fashion they rose above that and had a function anyway. Royston was annoyed that the Regent’s Park commitment prevented his attendance. But why couldn’t he have got a lift with Princess Anne? Anyway, it later emerged that Princess Anne’s main topic at the reception was her amazing meeting at Regent’s Park with Royston King, how bold and new he is, so amusing, what a character.

We returned from Winchesterford by public train. Luckily there was a Marks and Spencer at Waterloo and they had blueberries. It was fortunate because I had asked that Princess Anne stop by and get some for me on her way to Regent’s Park. But she didn’t.

Sunday 3rd May 2026

I went down to Val’s in March. Unattractively he was having a bilious attack. It was incredibly unattractive. I couldn’t bear to look. He attributed his state to over-enthusiastic saucing – as usual. ‘I’ve had too much to drink,’ he said crossly.

He ordered me out to the Co-op for fruit yoghurt. Rebelliously I added Hello magazine and charged it to his card. ‘£4.85!’ he thundered in posh actress cockney, like Angela Baddeley in ‘Up Down’. He was well enough for the Royal pages and we ran through the tiaras in French: ‘Les Jeunes Filles de Grande Bretagne et d’Irlande’ ‘Les Saphir Belge’ etc.. ‘KoKOSHnik,’ Val snapped when I said, ‘KoLOSHnik’ in error.

Three hours seemed to pass in this manner.

I determined that Val shall have decor. Why shouldn’t he? Like everyone else… After the debacle of the nid des tables that he put out in the rain, I formed a scheme to bid for another nest that was coming up in Edinburgh. The principle was that Val was going to have a nest of tables whether he liked it or not. Fetching this set would be a chance to visit Bruce McBain, my architect. But for once I asked for a condition report which said the nest was missing parts and therefore unstable.

Instead I got Val a coffee table on eBay for £120. His grand doctor friend had said that he might keel forwards from the sofa while playing patience on the floor and end up like Hanif Kureishi or even a cabbage. It was an hour each way to Croydon to fetch the coffee table. Desmond, the eBay seller, turned out to be an exceptionally attractive Iranian young man.

Last Saturday I ventured to Moscova, Hastings with the coffee table. Val wasn’t bilious and took to the table at once. I set about dusting and vac-ing. Then Val served a fantasy Moussaka luncheon with a 1st course of asperge de saison.

The next stage is to get Val’s pictures up and to acquire some bookcases at auction and get all his books off the floor.

I said to Val: ‘Les lapins peut and doit avoir la decoration’. Val said it wasn’t right but couldn’t remember the right way. Originally Jeremy Thorpe said, ‘Bunnies can and will go to France.’ But not even he had the wit to say it in French. It should have been in French because it was about France.

In parting, I said, ‘Try to do some cleaning every day… even if just a few hours. You can’t sit round imbibing when there’s so much cleaning to do, Val.’

Monday 13th April 2026

Despair on arrival. The Aga had plunged. The Gay Mother seemed not to have noticed. I turned it up and hoped that after 12 hours it would be up.

It wasn’t.

The Gay Mother is against Wild Garlic. The more I explain how artisanal it is, that in London bags sell for millions (in London, after all, the true rural life is lived), the more she is against it. In the hedgerows of the Far West it is far too ubiquitous, owing to excessive cutting by townie types for neatness.

At a luncheon in the neighbourhood last year somebody served wild garlic boiled as a vegetable side, as if it were greens. The Gay Mother said she felt no obligation to eat it. It was later when I stopped the Official Car to forage in the lane. Foraging is crucial to the experience. ‘What’s that?’ the Gay Mother enquired of the bundle on the kitchen table. ‘Wild garlic,’ I said. ‘Oh horrid.’

Over Easter I didn’t forage, not at all. The week before, calling at Angus Willis and Fergus Strachan, their cott near Hastings, where a styled supper was planned, at once I offered to forage. I didn’t even know the menu. Angus Willis said, ‘It’s in the wood at the back.’ I foraged, I thought to the limit, but Angus Willis said he’d have to be out again the following day. I’d under-foraged.

Fortnum was the other feature of Easter this year. I stopped there on the way back from Aunt Lavinia’s the Wednesday before Easter. Often there are reductions in the basement. I asked a perfectly respectable-looking attendant in a red tail coat for hot cross buns. He plucked a box off a pile. With a tiny Simnel cake for half a person, an Easter egg (reduced to £38.50) and a packet of smoked salmon, the total was £87.42.

Well, it turned out those hot cross buns – they had cherries, choc and almonds in them. Can you believe it? ‘Not very penitential,’ the Gay Mother said. What’s more they were use by 3rd April which was before Easter. We didn’t think they could go off especially if heated in the wavering Aga for twenty minutes. But they were beyond recovery. The bun part was made of extruded by-products of the timber industry – or something of that kind.

The egg might as well have been from W.H.Smith. Over-sweet dark choc and not very much of it. Some choc-coated orange pieces had been soldered onto the inside of the egg.

The Lord must have building up for His Resurrection in the Aga. By great good mercy, it boiled some broccoli, cooked a souffle and a lamb neck, among other things. As I said to the Gay Mother, ‘It’s lucky we’ve both lived through two world wars and don’t crumble in adversity.’ She said, ‘I’ve only lived through one world war,’ and began to recall the time the Rectory was hit in 1940. Mr Endicott, who came to help her father in the aftermath, said they’d had a remarkable escape. Because they were in the Rectory flat, not the main Rectory.

Just imagine if they’d been wiped out. History would have been very different and a Resurrection unlikely.

Saturday 4th April 2026

I went to the Royal Academy with Connor Cadeaux.

‘No, you can’t come in. The Fine Rooms are closed for a Private Function’. And some. Three clip-board artists guarded the door. One of them wagged his finger as we came up the stairs. They didn’t want us anywhere near.

Unusual. In the normal course of events, the PR types who man the guest lists at the door are not angled for hostility. The opposite. They are PR. Which is why it’s often so easy to get in.

We tried the permanent collection at the back of the museum. Closed for two years for revamp. ‘But it’s only just opened,’ I remonstrated. ‘And cost more money than any museum project ever.’ The attendant looked stricken as if the world of millions would be forever beyond him.

A little exhib of a woman watercolourist was offered upstairs. The lift was ages coming. We had to stand by a plaque commemorating a Sackler donation. We could have been triggered. Eventually gain the upper floor. Exhib not open yet. Only Press. Royston King would have had the Head of Comms winkled out of their office. We’d have been in in no time.

Like deflating balloons we sank down the stairs. In the main rooms is a show by somebody called Rose Wylie. Never heard of her. Nothing for it but to go in. At least free, on Royal Academy Friends card. Perfectly awful. Hardily anybody there. Are you surprised? Children’s scrawl, even with writing round the edges. One-horse idea repeated endlessly. Nasty politics coming off. When you think of the exhibs that have been in these rooms…

Below is Rose Wylie’s idea of what the ceiling looks like at the Frick. How was it ever allowed?

Sunday 29th March 2026

10.30 at Tate Britain for Turner and Constable, followed by lunch at Soho House. 6pm Sir David Cannadine’s Lecture on Paul Mellon at the Royal Academy under the aegis of the World Monuments Fund, British branch.

What a gruelling programme. Although, amazingly, I found myself back in the drawing room at 1.30, such is Ed Jasper’s scheduling. So there was quite an interval, in which to attend to Estate Business, re-outfit and re-align for the evening function.

Turner and Constable – well, it’s new to me, the idea of an exhib being compare and contrast as if a school task, with inevitably an invidious element. I’ll get straight to the point. Constable won. Since the question was asked, beside Constable, Turner came off rather noisy and wild, a little exhausting. I believe he was an impossible guest and tremendously anti-social. He added a huge sun to one pic minutes before Queen Victoria arrived to view. His painting was still wet in the Presence. Just imagine if she’d got paint on her frock.

The small paintings of Constable are some of the loveliest things known. Mostly they are in private hands so you must rush to the Tate Britain to see them. It was darling K Clark who first dared to suggest the huge vehicular works of Constable such as ‘The Haywain’ were rather overworked and the prelim sketches much livelier. So true. Poor Constable, when alive, was much put upon and endlessly being told to be more like Turner, advice he didn’t entirely resist. Many of his big works are in the exhibit, along with the smaller initial versions. In his way Constable was just as bold and experimental as Turner but much more preoccupied with the ordinary and the everyday. The best little paintings are moments of stunning revelation. There is the immediate recognition: this is what it must have looked like. But at the same time, the knowledge that nobody has ever seen it like this before.

In the evening Sir David Cannadine lectured on Paul Mellon at the Royal Academy. For a free event there was an incredible air of elite philanthropy. Paul Mellon was a billionaire who gave and gave. His wife was called Bunny. She gave too. Sir Cannadine managed not to mention that he was mainly a horse person. The great thing was he wasn’t ruined by unlimited fortune. He gave and did not count the cost or demand further interference. Nor was the purpose to erect a mausoleum to himself in his own lifetime. He funded unglamorous low-key things that nobody else was interested in – such as the updating the Pevsner guides to the Buildings of England, which the publisher Allen Lane pulled out of.

During questions I longed to ask: ‘How much did he actually have?’ Sir Simon Jenkins was present. Royston King thought he was looking wrecked. We looked him up and found him to be 82, whereupon Royston King thought him less wrecked. During questions, Sir Simon Jenkins said there will be a huge crisis within the next ten years for the parish churches. What is to be done? How can they be kept going?

We had to go to Charleston to see the Gay Granny’s Roger Fry. Royston King was asked to join the party. His enthusiasm was high on the Wednesday but by the Friday he was not seeing the point of extensive travel to see a painting to which he had no direct link.

The Gay Granny’s parents bought the Roger Fry off a man who went bankrupt, along with a lot of Empire furniture, which we still have. The Gay Granny left the Roger Fry to Cousin Pinny who always loved it. In turn it was passed to her children. They thought it needed restoring and took it to precious Philip Mold. Who at once roared and offered £££££££. Luckily they had the sense to go round to Bonhams who said they could do better. It was sold last summer with huge fanfare. Lead item in Bonham’s catalogue. Essay provided by grand art historian. The Gay Mother couldn’t believe it. It had hung in her grandparents’ London hall. It was thought nice for a modern painting. V. much taken for granted.

At Bonham’s it sold for £100,000. To, it turns out, darling Philip Mold anyway. Charleston had asked that whomever bought it would lend it for their Roger Fry exhib. So there it was.

It’s an important Roger Fry, one of only five he did for an exhib in 1917 when he couldn’t travel to Europe and do his usual kind of painting of Provence and the like.

It’s got lines and planes and thrust and dynamism. It was thrilling to see it again, probably for the last time, and pay deep abeyance. The Maharajah and Robert Nevil were also pleased with it, compared to the other still life paintings. Roger Fry did rather thick black lines. The revelation was his portraits which are superb. There was one of Margery Fry, his sister. The strange thing is the Gay Granny knew Margery Fry through Good Works. She often rode in a taxi with her during the War.

We lunched in the lunch barn at Charleston. The Maharajah begged to be let off coleslaw from his set plate. But they said it wasn’t the kind of place where you could expect bespoke fancification, such as not having colesaw.

Have you ever met anybody who likes coleslaw?

We motored on to Lewes – or rather batteried, as the new Official Car is electric. Motoring is no more as no motor. The Charity shops were seething. We could have bought everything but didn’t. There was another exhibi to be seen called The Two Roberts. This was at the town branch of Charleston. Dreadful old semi-delerict former municipal building. Exactly the same cakes on offer as at Charleston proper. Art-type lady on the till with no idea of how to work the till. The Two Roberts were some inter-War painting Gays who came to a bad end – or at least one of them did. Entering the town in the Official Car we saw the author of a book about them walking on the pavement. His book is called The Two Roberts. Needless to say, the Maharajah and Robert Nevil know him. A classic acquaintance of the Maharajah and Robert Nevil.

The Two Roberts: their work is not beautiful but great. Thick black lines.

Monday 23rd March 2026

Laura Malcolm had the idea of stopping off at Leeds Castle on the way to Unwin and Frankie Doreen’s incredible renovation.

I’d never been to Leeds Castle before. We had an all-in meal, two-courses, and house tour deal for £37 each.

Matt Driver was to be visiting his mother in Cambridge and coming on later.

I was desperate for toilet on arrival. It was miles and miles of asphalt footpath through landscape to find it. Laura messaged to say she was delayed for 30 minutes. She’d explain on arrival. I feared the worst. You never know these days. My only comfort was that she was actually coming. Total cancellation would have been more alarming.

There are interlocking lakes. It’s incredibly sweeping and rolling. Any destination can be seen in the far distance. The castle itself is fully moated and medieval as well as Tudorbethan. Somehow I couldn’t imagine them being there – Henry V111 and endless Medieval queens. The restaurant/cafe block is 1920s and must have been the garages.

At last Laura Malcolm herself hove into view. It was fully ten minutes before she was within speaking distance. Then it will came pouring out. She’d been arrested. £100 fine. For riding her bicycle on the pavement for a few seconds. ‘But, Officer, I’m trying to source green peppercorns in brine. You don’t understand.’ She’d already been to 4 shops in the Kensington/Fulham area. The crisis was intense. Frankie-Doreen had messaged: she was doing an 80s recipe. Green peppercorns in brine must have. Laura scoured a 20 square mile area of prime London. Not a green peppercorn in brine to be had. Agony.

She’d had to set out without them. At least, on arrival at the Castle door the welcoming guide said, ‘Are you friends of the Curator?’ What did this mean? Could only be one thing: you look like Superior Gays with Special Access, Priority Boarding, VIPs this way. I said, ‘Usually we are Friends of the Curator but not on this occasion.’

We’d actually paid. With our own money.

We toured the castle. Lady Olive Baillie had had it in the 20s. Odd yoking of American millionaire luxe and fortified medieval. Chips Channon was a frequent guest. The Rococo dining room at Leeds and Chips’ Amalienburg dining room at Belgrave Square were done by the same decorator. Theatrical.

Now it’s more of a venue and an education centre. I’m sure it could be made lovely for a wedding or a G7 summit.

During our all-in two course lunch meal, Laura and I poured over the NHS app and compared our cholesterol results. The sparse other lunchers were probably doing the same. Luncheon was brought to a triumphant climax when Laura managed to order green peppercorns in brine on Amazon, despite weak signal.

‘Order confirmed.’ We swept forth into the afternoon.

On arrival at Unwin and Frankie-Doreen’s renovation we shrieked and toured. No corner had not been renovated. And all in six months. Complete wonderment.

It turned out that Frankie-Doreen had also had the brain wave of ordering green peppercorns in brine from Amazon.

The next morning the landscaped park was revealed. We went out to Margate. Bridget Riley: couldn’t look at them. Made me feel queer. On to Broadstairs, which turned out to be charming and done up. Small plate lunch there of outstanding quality.

On return to the renovation, an Amazon delivery had occurred: a huge vat of green peppercorns in brine. I wondered if the two orders had been put together. But unlikely. Frankie-Doreen will be doing Cote de Boeuf au Sauce green peppercorns in brine until kingdom come.

Wednesday 11th March 2026

The Gay Mother took 102 years a few weeks ago.

Twenty-three persons crammed into the house for a fork luncheon. It was a bit better than one unripe supermarket brie on a table as at a student party. But you do wonder whether a packed mass is ideal for a 102nd birthday. Have many explored the territory? Why doesn’t somebody do a book: Party-planning for the Centenarian? It would sell and sell.

Aunt Lavinia’s dog’s lead got caught up in the bonnet of my new Offical Car. How? I hadn’t got round to opening the bonnet yet but was curious as to what would be under it since the car has no engine.

Someone or something set off the mousetraps as well – and it wasn’t a mouse.

As for the dog, it had on previous occasions dunged Sedgmoor Service Station (that was at Christmas) and vomited on the Gay Mother’s drawing room carpet.

Dogs are ornamental. But can’t come indoors.

Well, there were 23 persons crammed into the house. I was racked with guilt at having done no cooking – it was all bought in but styled. The Maharajah, Robert Nevil and Anthony Mottram styled and kept on styling all through the event. They were even washing up with Cousin Monica who accused the cutlery drainer of being unknown territory at the bottom: therefore best to put cutlery in handle first.

Anthony Mottram, as reported afterwards, had conversation: particularly with the KC about the Lucy Letby affair. The KC said she probably did it but should be retried.

I seemed only to encounter people as they arrived or departed. Often in the interval they’d gone off their heads. It was a blur really. Strange how at stand-up functions guests get lodged in odd places, such as doorways, even when in another room all the chairs are vacant. They must have been enthralled with their conversation.

It so happened it was glorious weather. The event really did take place, in the real world. The Gay Mother really is 102. Now she is online. When she was born the General Strike was yet to happen and Thomas Hardy was still alive. She was present at the funeral of George V and once saw Gandhi from the top of a bus in Knightsbridge.

She is bringing on seed potatoes in egg-boxes for the coming season in a cold part of the house. From out of the bathroom window, she’s seen a stoat.

Tuesday 3rd March 2026

No room at the Orchid PV this year. The Chinese Ambassador had too many guests.

We decided to lay siege anyway. Sensationally arriving at Kew as paying members of the public. A jobsworth in the entrance booth said the Orchid show was ‘fully booked’ for the day.

He had no idea who we were. We are not the kind of people to whom ‘fully booked’ means anything.

Or what we would do. Never had Kew been under such a weight.

Royston telephoned to the director’s office. Within 30 minutes we were ‘on the list’. Interesting that there is a list upon which random greatnesses can be placed at short notice. Emergency top people access – how many institutions cater for it?

In the meantime we carried out an inspection of Kew. Royston got ahead with identifying of trees without their leaves. Each Latin name was boomed forth like a 21 gun salute. ‘In the 90s, I was bored with Kew,’ he blasted. Quite frankly Kew was as if in a bag on the verge of being hurled in any direction, upwards to the heavens, or downwards into the mud.

Things picked up when Royston spotted an Acer Griseum, his favourite tree which he is having put all over London, in the teeth of some opposition. One park-keeper dared to denounce Acer Griseum

At the Princess of Wales glasshouse the queue for the orchids stretched for miles. But for us all formalities were waived and we were waved through.

It was worth it. The Chinese must have spent millions. Vast bowers of orchids as well as dragons and so on and then the joy of the plants in the glasshouse anyway.

There’s an aura of luxury about a winter glasshouse. I was reminded of Cecil Beaton’s account of Sybil Cholmoneley: her air of ‘pre-War luxury’ (he meant pre-1st World War) from an orchid being pinned to her dress with a diamond brooch.

Afterwards we went into Palm House. Robert Nevil and the Maharajah had been at Kew the week before. They’d seen the banyan tree there. The Maharajah said it was just like home. Also the Palm House is about to close for restoration.

Royston King said it’ll never open again in our lifetime. So we’d better take one last look. We poked at the iron beams. Royston King generated more headlines – Once you start on a building like this, there’s no end to it.

Well it is made of cast iron, which is probably the worst material for a tropical glasshouse which is permanently hot and damp. I thought its state not too bad considering.

We couldn’t find the banyan tree. Then someone called Brenda came to terf us out. Closing time. Brenda is i/c the glasshouse. How long in fact is it to be closed for? we enquired. ‘Three to five years.’ ‘It’ll be at least ten,’ Royston blasted, straight onto the front page.

I did dare to wonder whether it might just possibly be finished on time. But Royston said Since when have you been an expert on public building projects?