Sunday 15th February 2021

Borderline of existence. For a week I’ve done nothing. How is it possible? I’ve managed it.  A philosophical conundrum surely. People keep ringing up: ‘Why haven’t you returned my call?’ What happens to the time? It roars by as always but really…. Somehow I’m not up before 11. Supermart and back. The day’s over. Time for drinks and Call my Agent.

I keep thinking it’s only me. But it’s everybody. How could this be? I have all news feeds except the Stock prices switched off. I won’t listen. Aunt Lavinia says the News is everybody disagreeing. Which is good. The Gay Mother has heard that a black curate at All Hallows by the Tower, which was where Aunt Olive worshipped (so keep off there) has done a tweet and there’s been terrible outrage, even though he apologised. The Tweet said that Captain Tom in the aura around him was White Imperialism – something like that. Royston phoned and said, ‘He couldn’t help being White.’ He should know, being black himself.

Three weeks ago or so I felt so desperate. I couldn’t see how I’d ever get through all the menus I’ve got planned. How to keep up with Laura Malcolm, who’s progressed to a self-fermented barley loaf requiring some grains to be pre-soaked for a week? The loaf, finally, resembled the late Lord Goodman whom I saw once in person at St John’s Smith Square at some kind of fund-raising concert in the late 70s we weren’t supposed to be at or not in those clothes at least. There were looks. Important ladies accompanying Lord G (where they Fag Hags?) cast looks. But Lord G covered up for Lord Boothby re: the Krays (such dears) and fixed it that the Mirror lost the Libel case. Wasn’t he just a weeny bit criminal? So why did we have to have those women looking at us like that all those years ago?  Anthony Mottram and I were taken by his brother. Something to do with the Royal College of Mu.

I was breathless all the time. How was I ever going to get Marcus Wareing’s Brined Pork Fillet with braised cabbage and Quince Sauce on the table? And that white cabbage in the cold area – been there for weeks. I bought all those elements for Nigella’s New Orleans Coleslaw but had to throw them away. Have now re-bought. The white cabbage still looms in the cold area.

What’s so depressing is the actual eating, after all that kitchen slavery, is over in ten minutes and even in that time I’m trying to make inroads into the clearing up. Getting ahead. Will I ever have a moment to myself?

All this cabbage though, especially raw – I can’t digest it. But we didn’t live through two world wars to waste cabbage.

So that phase of frenzy lead to another. I had a risotto three nights in a row. It got nastier and nastier – mealy and dry. Then the red cabbage in the Austrian style. Industrial scale of supply – but what do you do with a red cabbage?  Even the smallest one is huge.

Well, at the end of that – and did I mention I’m trying to lose weight – my digestion was wrecked for good. I was picking at my food. The white pudding fried in slices to go with the red cabbage in the Austrian style tasted of utter drear. The Gay Mother said, ‘Haven’t you got any smoked salmon? How about a bit of plain boiled rice?’ ‘Rice! I can’t touch it. Swollen and bloated for days.’

I’m only just beginning to recover now. It’s just not natural to be eating one’s own cooking all the time. The digestion wards will be crammed for generations for sure.

Down with it all and I blame the Government.

Laura Malcolm’s Lord Goodman Loaf