Thursday 28^th April 2010

I’ve been laid low; that volcano was aimed solely at my lungs. Then on Monday I had a summit with Anthony Mottram in an interval between his ‘consulting’ work at the very heart of our nation. To remind: he is my oldest friend; we’ve been bickering away for the last forty years but recently we have bickered to the very edge of hell. Absolute non-speakers since Christmas. I made a bid for near-marriage. And lost.

Gay relationships! You won’t have heard of a curious lady-novelist called Ivy Compton- Burnett, died 1969, unmarried, but hardly an out-Lesbian, if a Lesbian at all. She said, ‘I wouldn’t have wanted a full, normal life.’

Nor should you.

I shall say no more on the Mottram front, for the time being. But there are to be sensational developments.

Last Thursday at the Multis’ I watched the Leaders’ Debate with Prince Dmitri Hersov among others. My favourite bit was when they showed Nick Clegg arriving in a large Jaguar. I love arrival, and also departure, especially by chauffeur-driven car. It is one of the ways in which Her Majesty the Queen has such an advantage. But the part in between can disappoint.

The aching dreariness of the debate! Couldn’t wait for it to be over. How can Poor Little Rich Gays be interested? Free eye tests, winter fuel allowance (second homes allowance more like it!), Cameron insulated his loft….

All the same it is rather worrying. Who’s going to stand up for the rich now the Tories have gone all nice and environmental? Are we to become a persecuted minority?

The Multis and the Prince were subdued. I hope they haven’t fallen into despair. Normally the sight of Gordon Brown and his vile debt and wasteful ways drives them to fury. They become magnificent and emotional and angry in a way that they do not about anything else.

By strange chance, at the same time the Gay Mother and Cousin Phoebe, the head cousin, have been a-clattering and a-steaming about that mine. Do you remember, last autumn the Gay Mother gave me a mine, or rather her share of it, while retaining its supervision? Don’t worry; not an ounce of whatever’s in it has been drilled nor is likely to be for years if at all. Now, it’s nothing but lawyers, accountants, land agents, the Gay Mother dictating letters, and liability and being made unfairly to sign and who shall act for us and are they to be trusted and everything could be seized by the authorities in the event of… and we’ll be left destitute.

I was telling Sebastian Archer, the partner of Robert Nevil, lying on the sofa upon return from New York (he’s got money in the bank; he’s been at Provincetown for a salt-water treatment) all about it. ‘It’s so difficult, being rich,’ he said.

It’s true. Such a struggle.