Signs of Unhingement in Tuscany: We Dine in Bavaria: I Dream of Cameron «

Signs of Unhingement in Tuscany: We Dine in Bavaria: I Dream of Cameron

Saturday 20th August 2011

Also, dozing in bed, ‘feral cricket’ came to me. What could it be?

Last night the Photo Multi suggested an incredibly simple dinner, after the six-course lunch, at a German camp-site, as he called it. I saw what he meant: chalet-type building in pine wood, windows divided with small panes of glass, not Italian at all. Waitresses from Latvia finished the effect. If only Prince Dmitri had known, he could have worn his lederhosen.

The Blond Multi, whose whole life is sun-bathing at the moment, ordered a pizza margherita. ‘But I don’t want the tomatoes or the mozzarella; I want it with an egg, sausage and speck.’ ‘But that’s not the margherita, that’s the Rhinemaiden,’ the waitress reasonably explained. His mother, Lady Carmichael, who pretends to disapprove of the miraculous freedom of the Multi ways, was just as bad and insisted that the panna cotta was combined on the plate with the chocolate cake. But she was pointed in her praise of the low prices. This was a hint. Once she told me a Multi-funded dinner had cost £800. ‘To me, that’s a holiday.’ We came in at 20 euros a head. This is often the way with a Gay Mother: having created a Poor Little Rich Gay she’s just a wheeny bit cross about the result.

The Photo Multi and I were intent on a peculiar screen in the middle of the restaurant: what or who was behind it? David Cameron? We’ve got that man on the brain. Tonight we dine in the restaurant where he took his last supper before boarding for the riots the week before last. I crawled up to take a sneak graph. See result below. The Photo suggested coming back in the night to burn down the screen.

Departing, we were unsettled by a strange Edward Hopper-like figure posed on a neighbouring balcony (odd in the middle of a wood anyway), with an indoor standard lamp beside him, apparently reading a book: I was not convinced by this reading.

I dreamed last night that D. Cameron arranged for me to see a specialist doctor in Norway. I wrote a letter saying I would come at 10 a.m. I was waiting a long time in a waiting room. Nothing happened, so I went in anyway. Cameron was sitting in a circle with some students and the doctor, who said he’d been waiting for me. I said: ‘Silly old Cameron didn’t read my letter. I said I’d come at 10.a.m.’ Cameron, now in morning dress before boarding for London, slaughtered me with his denial and my lack of gratitude. Then he carried on with some kind of group activity with the students. It was in Norwegian and of aching tedium.