Wednesday 4th February 2026

I’ve never thought much of the French Revolution, have you? So complicated … and long and drawn out. Misery for the schoolchild. Didn’t they think at the time to have it more straightforward, so everybody could follow? And get better marks..

The Russian Revolution not much better. Boring. Went on and on. Awful horrors and loss of jewels. Poor Nicky and Alicky, although she had her less satisfactory side.

Best not to have any Revolution at all, as in our own dear Country.

Harry Rollo mentioned to me some time ago that the French Revolution ought never to have happened. France has never got over it. Which must be true. Such a violent country.

Once you’ve smashed up one regime, where do you stop?

I must say, I’ve never been deeply concerned with Marie Antoinette. She does not course through one’s veins, as does Her Late Majesty Queen Mary, naturally, or Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 11. Or Her Present Majesty.

Now the V&A have mounted an exhib of Marie Antoinette. It was lucky I went with Miss Mullholland, otherwise I wouldn’t have got the point. It’s primarily a frock show, with some jewels, porcelain, furniture and ornamental gardening tools. But Miss Mullholland broke down over the letter in a glass case. ‘How lonely she was!’ she sobbed. ‘Just because it was all two hundred and fifty years ago, doesn’t make it any better.’

Such a good point about history. So often you hear: ‘Three thousand were massacred… not very jolly.. ha..ha.’

Later Miss Mullholland raged at some women who didn’t understand. ‘That’s the guillotine over there… in that glass case.’

Marie Antoinette don’t do anything wrong. I found out later. She was the victim. In her person she was an asset. Never read a book. But gay. Rousseau-esque. Championed huge hair, huge skirts, gorgeous embroidery, then later a simple milkmaid look. So daring. Her frocks were thought nighties. She loved a mis-en-scene. So playful. She had ornamental gardening tools. She never said, ‘Let them eat cake.’ She commissioned the most restrained porcelain. She did so much for the arts and the crafts.

It was quite unnecessary to drag her through Paris in a cart and chop her head off. She was the daughter of the Emperor of Austria. Even the V&A seem to think so. Such wrong. I can’t get over it.

Monday 2nd February 2026

I arrived at the Gay Mother’s by car, diverted through Bridport to collect items not wanted from an auction house (bid on the wrong lot).

The Gay Mother wanted a leek soufflé. I couldn’t face it – the construction, I mean. Too shattered.

I wondered what to do. The menu wasn’t coming through. In the same way, sometimes outfits don’t come through. No revelation of how it must be.

I carried on styling elsewhere in the house. And then, great good fortune, I was struck while dusting on the stairs – egg and chips. The air fryer…

So egg and chips were served. I’ve never had it before. And will have it again.. it is reputable dish, contrary to common perception.

Another day I got some rhubarb. The bottom oven of the Aga is perfect for it. The Gay Mother said the juice of an orange must be squeezed in. She directed from her chair. Then at the last moment, sudden new direction, a spoonful of damson jam to be added as well.

There was no hope of contradicting or evading. There never has been.

The result was perfectly acceptable. The taste was neither of damson nor orange but something else that cannot be described.

I forgot to mention that at Christmas the Gay Mother insisted on getting out Jane Grigson’s English Food for the breadsauce recipe. The copy is so old bits dropped off it all over the kitchen. I’m vac-ing them up even now.

The Gay Mother then self-made the breadsauce on that occasion. Jane Grigson puts in cayenne. That seems to be her main contribution.

The Gay Mother’s breadsauce is never claggy or gluey.

Wednesday 21st January 2026

I went to Prague. Even if you say to Anthony Mottram, ‘You’ve already had your cuppy,’ he just says, ‘It’s time for another.’

Gym was usually at five, followed by cuppy (and cake) at Starbucks as a reward. I said, ‘It’s seven o’clock. Tea is at 4 or perhaps 5.’ Swept aside. Tea at 6.30. Dinner at 7.30. Then Netflix.

We had the Mushroom Murders. Nobody will offer Beef Wellington ever again. Then we had ‘Mr Mercedes’. It was completely believable.

Only lunch and breakfast had an interval between them, although telescoped from the normal. The apartment was piled with cakes, biscuits, chocs and pastry bites. It was important to refresh the hoard. Luckily there are four bakeries plus an Italian store with pizza on the way to and from I.P. Pavlova. That’s the Metro Station. It’s that man who rang a bell and the dogs came, even when there was no food.

One of the bakeries ran out of the green marzipan wedges with chocolate coating.

With normal interludes between breakfast, lunch or tea, not enough of the cake collection would get eaten. One day Anthony Mottram added individual tiramisus. He and the accompanist had one each before playing. Then it was time for the gym. I refused my pre-gym tiramisu, not because of diet. Simply, I could not have accommodated it.

We slogged back to I.P. Change at Florenc. After gym, cuppy at Starbucks. Then straight to the Iranian restaurant.

In the apartment, Anthony Mottram would cry out, ‘Marts is up.’ Or ‘Marts is down.’ His father’s cry was ‘News, news, news.’… or perhaps it was his mother’s… summoning for the ten o’clock or the one o’clock.

There’s no maid service at the moment. There used to be an actual ‘daily’. 3 hours a day. Now no maid at all.

A Greatness came for New Year’s Eve. Chicago-born. Recently she re-did the lobby of one of the hotels for a very rich man who owns it. Other entire hotels are envisaged. Such projects. Others of her era are in twilight homes or have fully passed. But she is a very convincing 49. Yoga. Little black slacks. I said, ‘Cooking with a heritage floor is such a challenge.’ In the apartment the kitchen floor is a superb parquet. It’s not really a kitchen as normally understood. More like a state room with a kitchen in it. ‘It’s not exactly heritage,’ Her Greatness said. She wasn’t going to let it go. For the floor was cunningly re-done about twenty years ago. It’s not original. But might as well be.

Other ex-pats lunched or dined out. Their lives are crowded with incident. Attempted murder. Hospitalisation. Runaway wives. Being the victim of fraud on a considerable scale is another feature. 50,000 euros made off with, or even 70…. In one case the fraudster has absconded. Is thought to have become buried deep in the Czech countryside.

The irony is that although people such as Anthony Mottram saved the bloc after 40 years of communist experiment, they have little to do with the day-to-day management of the country now. They don’t see Prague as theirs, to run as they think fit, in the way that Royston King and I run London. At one luncheon, I said to Anthony Mottram, ‘What about your legacy? Where are you having your statue put up? How will it be funded?’ No interest really. Not even in a project, such as improving the garden in the middle of the roundabout on the way out to the airport.

The other man lunching is a Buddhist, so v. limited grandeur while alive and absolutely none after death.

But such conversation, such topics, the roaming and rigour with Anthony Mottram. With most, a topic fizzles out after two minutes, no matter how able the participants. Not with Anthony Mottram – the topic is sustained and evolves, drives ever forward. This is brilliance.

14th January 2026

A well-known gardener said on Insta, after live-streaming endless Christmas cooking: ‘What are you going to do about January dieting?’ Answer from me: ‘Eat nothing whatsoever.’

But how?

I looked in some bags which I’d brought back from the Gay Mother’s: one box of Lindor Golden Balls, one box of Belgian Marks and Spencer, one tin of Danish cookies – not to mention Cousin Olive’s gift of cheese.

All through Christmas one lies awake at night: how to get everything eaten? our bird was huge (for two, one of 101), there were six sprouts remaining from the Christmas dinner; I over-bought mince pies. The Christmas cake was going into the drawing room every day at 5, and not getting any smaller. Our agent sent a box of chocs the size of the State Banqueting table at Windsor.

Afterwards it’s how to eat nothing while still pursued by Christmas treats with Use by dates? For, after two World Wars, nothing must be wasted. We didn’t live through two World Wars to waste food.

One could have a function and off-load. But that might generate more food in itself.

What’s more, somebody’s just gifted me a bar of choc.

Monday 5th January 2026

The period is an intrusion. I said to Laura Malcolm last year, it’s a near-death experience. Such closures of vital facilities: boutiques, Gail’s Bakery and Waitrose. Curation, selection, the forward march, the endless renewal, all suspended for a flat dimensionless plain of mince pies and brussels sprouts.

In the middle of it, last week, I snatched a normal day: the National Gallery, the new Supporters’ Room, the Wright of Derby exhib. We were ordinary members of the Public, up to a point. But, as I mentioned to Royston King, twice I’ve been exclusively to the National Gallery with Trustees who are allowed in past the dustbins after hours. Royston King thought little of my access.

Wright of Derby – Royston King impressed. I thought he had one idea, repeated, which was to do Caravaggio but with some then new piece of technology or a blacksmith’s furnace occupying the centre of the picture in a blaze of revelatory light and persons gathered round in wonder. V competent and finished in the handling of paint.

In the Supporters’ Room it turned out you could have something tres leger and minimal ladies’ luncheon involving rare green emulsions for £88.

After luncheon, Royston King acquired a fan who came in from afar for the Cecil Beaton exhib at the Portrait Gallery. Of course we were there for the Opening a few years ago.

There seems to be a Cecil Beaton exhib every five minutes these days. It was a Cecil Beaton exhib at the Portrait Gallery which was our final engagement before the Pandemic Response in March 2020. Mrs May was there and Jacob Rees-Mogg whom tried to shake my hand when shaking of hands was being featured as the premier method of halting the spread.

So obvs time for another Cecil Beaton exhib. Anthony Mottram lived opposite Cecil Beaton in the village where he lived in Wiltshire. Greta Garbo had been seen in the post office, it was said. After his death there was an auction of any old junk from Cecil’s house. Anthony Mottram’s mother acquired an overcoat which AM wore for many years until it fell in half.

Cecil was marvellous of course. But we know that already. A whole room full of small prints of unknown society ladies fully styled and looking superb, alive yet styled – well, they were too small.

This exhib was formless. Even Royston was critical. Cecil’s greatest role was saving the Monarchy after the Abdication with those photographs of Queen Elizabeth in a white tiered crinoline dress and parasol on the terrace of Buckingham Palace. But this was barely mentioned.

There was one graph which I adored and had never seen before, a photo of a photo as it were, the heroic mis-en-scene of a fashion shoot, with the model, the legendary Barbara Goalen, sensationally surprised by the camera as would never usually occur. The elaboration, the epic scale – a triumph of the noble endeavour of fashion .

Nothing is ever as over as Christmas. Some plan from October. Few escape three weeks prior of strain and joy – carding, planning, menu-ing, singing ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ more than once as the racking deadline approaches. 

Then in puff it’s gone. The bird’s bones boiled down, the bureaux stacked with gifted choc, luxury biscuit selections and unusual pre-prandial snacks. 

Something always goes wrong. I couldn’t believe that, on return from Tesco, I’d managed to buy semi-skimmed. There’s nothing I loathe more than semi-skimmed. The Gay Mother’s Tesco has been revamped along environmental lines which means ‘chilled’ items are in cupboards. So the shop was full of people rummaging in cupboards, wrecking the display, creating mayhem. They’ve changed the signage on the milk vessels as well. It’s probably deliberate. 

The Gay Mother was soothing about it. She even volunteered to get through the semi-skimmed single-handedly herself. At least the other one, that I’d brought from London, was Whole. 

But then, on Christmas Day, you just wouldn’t believe it. We looked at the other one. It was the Gay Mother who spotted it first. Semi-skimmed, aussi. 

Such failure. You can only beg for it soon to be over.

The  meaning of Christmas has all been sort. Now it’s too late. But really it’s the lodge and gates, the aroma of sherry in the library, the squirarchical Rover at the church porch, the good tweed of the first lady of the neighbourhood and her very quiet diamonds. 

Tuesday 23rd December 2025

The racking strain; menu-ing is near impossible. All the side repasts must be legere – because of the juggernaut of the main Christmas MEAL, the dead weight of cake, mince pies etc. But how to adapt seasonal root vegetables, cabbage, warming meats for a light tripping ladies’ luncheon type of experience? Then there’s gifting, carding – every day costs £200 in the run-up. I mentioned this to precious Joshua Baring. He said, ‘More like £80,000.’

I notice though, as I wend to the post box, looking through people’s drawing room windows, many have the television on in the afternoon. Even by 16th December they’re doing this. Huge screens. They’re watching old black and white movies or Christmas specials in lurid technicolour. The quiet retreat into domesticity; no doubt wrapping presents on the floor, a leisurely afternoon in the peace and comfort of their homes.

Not for me, sadly. I could never watch television in the afternoon. Too busy planning outfits, drowning in detail. But for others.

Snug and cosy in the home. Snow outside. Some poor orphans shut out, looking in from the street to the glowing drawing rooms of the more fortunate. Now we don’t have snow. But I did think the TVs going in drawing rooms in the afternoon was a ghost of Christmas in Victorian times.

18th December 2025

Above all, one hopes to continue to be able to carry out one’s engagements. People often ask me: what do you do these days? Why must one be doing anything? Usually I reply ‘Carrying out my engagements and wearing clothes.’ I could mention: decor, gardening, restoring, menu-ing, planning outfits, in a life crowded with incident. What is the meaning of life? The question is often asked. The meaning of life is: arrival at the engagement, followed by departure therefrom, having carried out the engagement.

Recent engagements have included:

The Importance of Being Earnest – incredibly silly and enjoyable. No dinner afterwards with Sir Stephen Fry such as Royston King achieved.

The Line of Beauty as a play. Very good. It came out more political than the novel upon which based. Of course one knew one of the actors.

Ed Jasper, the bedlinen expert, organised a heritage walk with guide, around the back of the Savoy and down onto the Embankment. Saw the King’s Chapel of the Savoy. Never seen before. Incredibly ancient. The Embankment Gardens was entirely reclaimed from the river – huge area. We wanted it put back though – to how it was in the Caneletto. Must campaign for it to be put back.

There was nearly a scene at J. Sheekey which had claimed to be ‘fully booked’ – not a phrase Ed Jasper is familiar with or even understands.

I gave a charity dinner at home. Ten dined. Had prayed someone would be ill – because 9 can sit at the dining table, but not 10. Nobody was ill. Had to have separate tables. Naturally those at one of tables decided they’d been fobbed off. I think I’ve mentioned before the Hell of guests. Another day the Multis dined with Genevieve Suzy and Mr Suzy. The 1st course was meant to be either/or crab or smoked salmon. But they all had both. Captain Multi wanted bread AND butter… For the Charity Dinner my outfit was Francois Truffant, black merino polo and grey slacks. Often in the strain of styling a dinner at home, the outfit doesn’t get planned.

Royston King took tickets for two Handel concerts which I was pleased to attend. Rare Handel and associated composers, including Bach. One concert was at San Giorgio Hanoveri, the other at the Foundling Museum. Virtuoso players, utterly devoted. They gave one of the Brandenburg concertos and the Bach double harpiscord concerto. Royston King was thrilled by TWO harpiscords. This baroque mu that isn’t well-known has a strange self-perpetuating quality. In its way it’s as difficult as Stockhausen or Ligeti.

Tuesday 16th December 2025

It was a most discouraging arrival. On the previous visit I’d brought Val a nest of tables, or une ne des tables (except it’s not ‘ne’: read on to find out).

They were a job lot in an auction at Nottingham. £40 with premium. The main thing was to get a card table for Fergus Strachan who had been required to host Bridge by the Photo Multi. The oak trolley I thought perfect for Normandy, for garden service in the summer. And the nest… maybe it was worth restoring. It had a slight repro tinge but that might wear off with time. There was a lovely veneer.

It was 3 hours each way in the car to fetch the items. Plus agony of whether have committed traffic offences and might get banned.

The trolley – I had to get a Zipcar to take it over to Laura Malcolm’s and Matt Driver’s in Fulham. Terrible worry about a speed camera on the Embankment.

Laura professed thrilled with the trolley. Sudden flash one morning – surely the nest ideal for Val. He doesn’t have any dainty tables of any kind in his drawing room. Everything’s on the floor.

Well, Val took one look at the nest. ‘Can I re-gift?’ he said. ‘Maybe Dolly will like them.’ That’s one of his neighbours.

‘But Val..’ I cried, ‘you’ve no table by your sofa… you could be so dainty.’

It was left that I would put the nest under the piano. I hoped at least it would be forgotten about.

So imagine my horror as my machine drew into Val’s forecourt of his Hastings bungalow for a second visit last week – accompanied by Anthony Mottram of Prague.

There was the nest dumped outside the front door. It had even come on to rain.

‘Val,’ I said, ‘you… ‘ I used a bad word and more. ‘Val, you’re an absolute…. ‘

‘Dorabella visited on Saturday,’ Val said. ‘She thought they were horrible too.’ Dorabella is one of Val’s mannish woman friends, a grand blue-stocking doctor. ‘Not even Dolly wanted them.’

Later on I did a Christmas card for Val: ‘Bunnies can and will have un ne des tables,’ I put in it. By the time Val opened the card he was in bed (but we were still there). ‘The French for nest is N.. I ..D,’ Val announced, having enough strength to correct.

I’m not giving up. I’m going to get Val a really fine Regency nid des tables of the most superb quality.

In even worse news, it now turns out that Matt Driver has taken against the oak trolley. Not just mildly. Really withering… it’ll never get across the grass, you can’t get a trolley over steps… He applied an extended analysis lasting 40 minutes, such as, once, he gave to the preposed global campaign to launch the latest Persil washing liquid.

The only happy thing is that Val’s rejected nest has found a happy home in Royston King’s drawing room – which is very grand and has received world figures.

Tuesday 9th December 2025

The Gay Mother comes in bursts. She is 101, almost 102. She emerges from a long trough with a remark about Queen Elizabeth the First or even the Second.

It was some months ago, when Robert Nevill and the Maharajah were down, that I was plumping cushions at the close of the day. ‘There’s nothing worse than a squashed drawing room first thing in the morning,’ I said as I plumped. ‘There might not be anything left of those cushions with all that bashing,’ the Gay Mother flashed.

This time she was by the fire towards tea-time. It was being a very quiet afternoon of extreme old age. In the morning she had planted bulbs for indoors, then ordered sherry as a reward. ‘The late Queen didn’t want clergy in red,’ she said with the kind of emphasis that would suggest the topic was of riveting world-wide currency and on everybody’s minds. ‘She was most particular about it,’ the Gay Mother continued. ‘She thought red was a royal colour.’

Next day she opened the day that Cousin Marion had made beds with the Archbishop of Canterbury. This was when they were student nurses. The Gay Mother went on to boil up dishcloths and clean behind the kitchen tap with an old toothbrush.