Wednesday 26^th May 2010

I’ve such a backlog. I haven’t covered the Multis in the front row at the  auction last week nor my high, high dinner on Sunday with Royston Buster, as seen on TV, major feature of Chelsea Flower Show coverage, and also massive wheeler-dealer, millions passing through his hands, in another connection altogether.

But all that will have to wait.

The markets are plunging. I can’t bear it. It’s Tobago October 2008 all over again, where I was stationed for the banking crisis, unable to breathe, strangled in fact. Now my official car requires £1500 spent on it. Such sensitive timing. Repairs purely cosmetic. Air con gone and rear bumper broken.

Talk about a deficit. And there’s the Umbrian villa to be paid for – I haven’t told you about that, have I?  I’ve spent the morning re-structuring but how much longer before the IMF or the taxpayer have to bail me out? And the Summer Sales! They will be upon us any minute (make a note, Poor Little Rich Gays all over the world), snapping and snarling at our lovely heels. I’m thinking seriously of slashing my budget to zero.

Underlying, of course, is the Anthony Mottram situation. Not being on speakers is so draining. Pavel Marincek, former young boyfriend of Mottram, has arrived from Prague for the Chelsea Flower Show this afternoon. Well, there’s so much to say re: Poor Little Rich Gays and their relationships, so much you could copy, but let’s not go into it now.

This morning I woke up and remembered: 2^nd June is Robert Nevil’s birthday. Coronation Day, although not the actual one sadly, was when this tiny book-writer was introduced. He was even smaller then, if you can imagine, being only a baby. The thing is on Monday Aunt Lavinia rang up – she’s the one whose voice was honed centuries ago for riding to hounds. Sudden wen for Glyndebourniana. It’s been a sore point. She inherited my uncle Maristow’s membership, you see, but this year, she’s been Glyndebourne-inert. Not going, not at all, hence no invitation! Anyway, we diary away. How about 2^nd June?  Yes, there are tickets to be had. And poor Robert Nevil’s birthday clean forgot. Out of the window. Glyndebourniana scythes all before.

Until this morning, that is, when I remember.