Thursday 23^rd July

I am in France at what my old friend, Laura Malcolm, the novelist and commentator on French life, calls her ‘Norman fastness’. It is a full heterosexual experience. I met Laura 30 years ago when we were both having a phase, now behind us, of working in offices. These days, she spends six weeks every summer in her French home.  I visit in July.  I drove out yesterday bringing with me in my small but chic gay car only intended for one or two, Esme Manning, formerly of stage and screen and soon to return, her son, Hopkin, Charis Cameron, former journalist, soon to return, and her daughter, Marina. Such a crowd meant I had to sacrifice my large suitcase and attempt to cram everything into a hold-all. Well, I tried. I put my pants (did I tell you about buying the wrong size Calvin Kleins in the sales?  Now I am lumbered with these voluminous Bridget Jones bloomers) and socks in and it was full. What to do? I ended up with two valises and poor Esme, sitting in the front seat, was up to her neck in luggage that wouldn’t fit in the boot for the entire journey of six hours.  She did not complain.

Bowling through France, Esme produced baps. She had been up all night buttering. Soon the car acquired that smell of butter and bananas that means children and mummies and perhaps daddies if they haven’t fucked off elsewhere.

At the Fastness, there were dear Laura, her hot husband, Matt Driver (who single-handedly is responsible for the way deodorant is advertised to adolescent boys) and their whippy bendy daughter with nerves of steel, Ivy – in their country clothes. Laura’s London home has recently been renovated from top to bottom (barely a trace of the original remains) by our mutual friend, Bruce McBain, the architect. Two summers ago in Normandy she was in the thick of the London refurb, downloading plans on an ancient dial-up Internet connection, getting out her ruler to check the dimensions of the vast granite-topped ellipse which was to be the central feature of her new kitchen. Just when we thought the position and size of the ellipse had finally been settled (458 mm out from the wall units, 256mm wide and so on) that old dial-up would be pinging and hissing away and Laura would be e-mailing Bruce McBain demanding a complete re-think.

For all this, Laura is a passionate non-freshener. That is to say, she does not do any cleaning nor indeed any household work except for cooking at which she is superb. It is said she was once a year in a rented house without finding out how to switch on the vac.

So, on arrival in Normandy there were always one or two things to attend to. This year, the rideaux (or curtains) in my bedroom are a heap on the floor and the bog brush has mysteriously evap (its handle remains). However Matt Driver has developed a sudden wen for cleaning and is actually hoovering the ceiling when we arrive . I should explain. The house has wooden beams that get covered in cobwebs. But it absolutely is not a nooky, wooky, cotty, beamy twee horror home. And it has never been so fresh, as a result of Matt’s efforts, so I won’t be vac-ing through this year.

I find that I can rig up the rideaux by balancing the pole on the screw-head which is all that remains of the thing that should hold them up. The bog brush will have to wait.

With my products laid out and my frockage also – I’ve rather tended to avoid the chest of drawers since we found that it had turned into a maternity ward for field mice a few years ago–  I really am very comfortable. It’s time to trip downstairs to begin family life.

Laura Malcolm's outstanding Nicoise