Tuesday 14th September 2010

On Sunday  I went with Robert Nevil, author of the History of the Pony Club among other works, to Great Dixter.  On the face of it, RN is one of our less particular Poor Little Rich Gays. He has been known to buy a chicken for less than £35. He can even walk straight past Trenton’s art gallery and fail to spend £65,000.

But his views on ironing knocked me down.

We were early for Dixter so embraced nearby  Bateman’s, former home of Rudyard Kipling. Have you heard of him? He wasn’t Indian as I had always thought but had a lot of money from writing. Superb. The money, I mean. In the frightful Rose Garden we craved incendiary devices, but we loved the house, despite its being nooky-wooky-woody-cotty-beamy. It is a 17th century manor, excellent taste, nothing matching. I’ve told Angus Willis to rush round and get ideas for his neighbouring Hastings Tudor House. In the dining room (only chairs for 8) Robert and I assume that in one hundred years’ time the public will be peering into our own rooms from behind a silk rope in the same fashion. ‘This is where they sat in the afternoons’, ‘This is where the risotto was hurled.’ ‘This is where they applied their moisturiser.’ ‘Here are the texts from world-famous Poor Little Rich Gays thanking for dinner.’

Later our topic was Lithuanian cleaning women for some reason. Perhaps it was the house-theme. Robert’s stands in the bath to clean it, ankle-deep in water. She vacs the brickwork outside, but breaks everything. We progressed to the Polish ironing lady. ‘I told her to put the shirts on hangers and button them up. I showed her how to put them in the wardrobe the right way round, all the collars facing the same way. When I came back, had she done as asked? Had she, buffalo!’

I’m reeling. ‘Button them up‘? Why? Robert Nevil nearly auto-destructs on the spot. ‘For Goodness sake, Adrian Edge. Otherwise they’ll crease. Surely….’

There’s a ghastly silence in which looms horror. You could have heard the soup sitting in its bowl had there been any. I’m 53 years old on 1st October and it’s never even crossed my mind. Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why wasn’t I saved?

I never knew you had to button them up. Never knew you had to button up newly ironed shirts after putting them on a hanger and before putting them in the wardrobe.

By the way, Robert’s History of the Pony Club was for sale in the shop at Bateman’s. We stood beside it feeling utterly insider and above.

Decrepit, Common Rose-Garden at Bateman's, Which Narrowly Escaped Incineration by Robert Nevil and Adrian Edge on Sunday