Sunday 5^th December 2010

First thing, before dressing, in fact lurching straight from my bed, edit  my sock, pants, tie and belts drawer. Then dainty breakfast. Then Miroslav and the father-in-law who is not his father-in-law, to paint the kitchen, not absolutely expected. I clear the kitchen. They paint it. I to the garden. Everything to be done before forecast freeze. Tulips in, eucomis out, off to the garden centre for more pots, mud everywhere, Miroslav and father-in law in the way, brushing, tidying, heavy heaving, stake a shrub that’s tipped over, measure to keep vile cute squirrels off tulips, get the kitchen back in order, listen to Miroslav outline epic plans in made-up English for the upstairs windows …

Enough of that. Lord Arrowby lies awake at night criss-crossing over his next move in the highest corridors of power. I writhe over my Christmas card list. Will I get it done in time? Will I conceive an adequate canapé menu for my party (yes! It’s happening), let alone execute the canapés?

Speaking of Lord Arrowby … I promised to tell you more. You remember I took against him a month or so ago and was going to sack him as my part-time love interest. I’ve felt a little like Cecily Cardew having to write all the love letters she received from Algernon herself. Really, were we in a romantic novel, my undying devotion would have been rewarded by now. I’ve heard that straight men are never seduced, they either fancy or they don’t. That’s it. Gay Men are worse and Poor Little Rich Gays the worst of all. It’s only ladies (or women) who might change their minds.

But just imagine!  At the party last Saturday Lord Arrowby came over specially to talk to me. He only has to murmur in my ear and all is forgotten. It seems he’s been subject to psychometric tests. Anthony Mottram, my estranged old friend, was found to be dominant by such means, so he cancelled the test for the entire office. Lord Arrowby said he knew what they were getting at so exaggerated his score.

Well, we all have an idea of ourselves we like to cling to. Me, I think I’m marvellous and deeply human, if a little alarming and also rather frightful. Lord Arrowby – these prominent and important people – they’re complex, you know. Think of Winston Churchill. Not normal at all. Not steady. Not what you’d expect. But you don’t want steady at those heights, you want brilliant. All the same, Lord A goes about, raves at the Vauxhall Tavern, is seen at parties, maintains a full diary including weekend visits,  just like all the other Poor Little Rich Gays.

I think he’s  just tired. So many Poor Little Rich Gays are. Is there a more gruelling path? Not just face, hair, clothes, decor, art collection, perfume, but, in Lord A’s case, all the old people ever, even those not yet old – he’s supposed to do something about them. Government boxes come round on Saturday mornings.

At least he’s back now, as my part-time love interest.  Maybe it’s the ideal arrangement. For him, as well as me. We’ll see.

By the way, Lord Arrowby has pointed out that his new coat is alpaca not fun fur as erroneously stated in my previous post.

I’m also thinking … what if he’s invited to the Royal Wedding…