Sunday 22^nd May 2011

Were I under the Doctor, I’m sure he would order a light diary (all right, she). I’m in danger of  übergadiarisengesmacht as the Germans call it. I notice Her Majesty the Queen is in the same predict: not a minute back from Ireland, and it’s get the State Suite vac-ed for President Obama and the First Lady.

Nothing worse than having visitors immediately after you’ve been away.

Well, my light diary came to nothing: I had three last-minutes, four if you count the Thursday whirl round to Angus Willis, the world-famous food stylist and writer, and Fergus Strachan’s, to tidy away the remains of an M & S shoot (Angus also launched some sensational ice-creams: you’ll see). Then there was my chaperoned summit with my part-time love interest, Lord Arrowby. That was scheduled for Borough Market yesterday morning, and took place.

We’re just astonishingly intimate, that’s how it is, despite all appearances to the contrary, such as never seeing or hearing of each other for months on end. ‘Do stop hitting me,’ he said playfully. On parting, he declared, ‘We’ve been together for two hours; it hasn’t been too bad.’

I see an ‘understanding’ looming within the next two years at least. It’s a question of combining a firm line with lovely soothing encouragement. As we know, Poor Little Rich Gays are perfectly impossible in intimate life, requiring complete freedom as to décor, choice of hotel, restaurant and frockage, on top of not having a minute to spare because of intense diarising, empire-building, entrepreneurial activity and glorifying of the life: The Poor Little Rich Gay arches for significance beyond the domestic.  Even though the home is vital, as much as possible, it is set on the international stage.

Anyway there’s a great deal more to say about that. What with one thing and another, I’ve now got a backlog of nine items to cover, and Chelsea Week is upon us, new events are coming into being hourly. Pavel Marincek, ex-kitchen of Anthony Mottram, arrives from Prague on Tuesday for the Show. That night there are TWO PVs, then the Show itself on Wednesday, always demanding though thrilling, requiring trudging and parting of crowds while in celebratory frockage and mood.

My greatest diary challenge is the weekend after next, when on the Saturday, I lunch with the Multis, and the Blond Multi’s mother, Lady Carmichael, on a rare London visit, regain my home at 3.30 to show my gardens to some earnest Islingtonites;  then out again to dinner with Dhirren Dutta, who wrote that novel about improved hygiene in India (oh India – my God, there’s that to cover: Robert Nevil has introduced yet more elements); on the Sunday, lunch with Aunt Lavinia who is fielding the designer of Glyndebourne, then tea with Ludovico Colnaghi, then ‘Candide’ at the Barbican as part of Robert Nevil’s birthday celebrations, in the evening.

We must glory in the wracking abundance, the riven delights of Poor Little Rich Gay life, but don’t be surprised if I have to be carried on a stretcher to Tuscany for the August retreat.