Sunday 21st September 2025

On the way I, Adrian Edge, ran into Harry Rollo and Mercury Mr Kitten at the traffic lights. They were returning from a private outing to the Jarman House on the sand dunes.

Only some of the most well-known people in their fields – at the traffic lights.

I couldn’t stop long because due at the Hall. Our seats were in a box. I assumed the allocation was random but maybe not.

The boxes at the Hall are for twelve not known to each other. Royston King and I, Adrian Edge, took our seats. It was to be the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra – very, very high.

Little did we know what glory was to ensue. There were other people in the box but unknowns. To the side though, there was a stirring, a sense of presence which rapidly materialised. Royston at once was wondering whether to hail… the Controller of Radio 3, whose drinks party we had attended at the previous Prom. He was right next to us. Royston didn’t wonder for long. The megaphone was out.

Others were taking their seats. Among them Matthew Bonne Femme, the gardener, superb in florals as was his husband. But too far away to get the attention of..

We had to wait until the interval, where outside in the corridor there was a flurry. Matthew Bonne Femme remembered me. I had to shout Royston King down to get across to him about the Crape Myrtle. Royston had started up about the Memorial Garden for Queen Elizabeth 11 in Regent’s Park. The Controller of Radio 3 was trotting on the spot. The corridor behind the boxes – it could be a hotel but exclusive. Only box-holders present. The murmur was – the Chairman of the BBC was somewhere, in one of the boxes. But which one?

We conducted a sweep. Royston longed to crash but veered. Many box doors open, but no Chair of the BBC.

It was only on the way back that through an open door we saw the Controller of Radio 3 making a speech to a small ring of persons who applauded. Then somebody said, ‘Ah, Royston!’

And we were in. The occupants of the Chair’s box had never known such a whirl, such a thrill of the not planned-for. The former Director General was there. Others we’d met at Petworth. Trustees, Committee members. Drinks, crisps. You’d have thought we were radical drag artists or extreme LGBTQ+ extremists such was the excitement, the diversion from their set agendas. The Chair was bouncing up and down as Royston gave feedback on his Select Committee appearance that day. ‘I’m a good foil to the Director-General,’ he repeated, ‘I’m a good foil…at last I’m a foil…’

He couldn’t have loved it more.

We returned to our box for the Tchaikovsky – this was just about the most prestigious of the Proms. The whirly bits of the Tchai – you just couldn’t believe it. Was it ever so played in live performance? How could they do it?

On the way out we saw Lady Susan Hussey half-way through a swing door. The BBC, it seemed, had taken at least three boxes, a carpet of boxes with guests.

What an occasion. What a miracle.