The table, at Le Vigne, Radda in Chianti after lunch had been eaten. What do you deduce?

Thursday 20th August 2009

Today Laura Malcolm and Matt Driver are coming. In fact she has just texted from the 1st Class lounge at Gatwick, feeling a little queasy after the Easybus – whatever that is.

You may remember, they are to experience their first gay holiday as non-gays.

At breakfast, a minute ago, a helicopter flew over, low. Very low, skimming the tops of the trees. Was it the Limpney/Smallmeals, doing a recce? I’m thinking those Exocets might be needed after all – purely for defence purposes, of course. They are known users of copters. It could have been them. Now, I have heard, if you’re interested, about the guests at their Rimini hutch-hovel – that’s their villa. Oh dear, oh dear! What a falling off! No lovely Robert Nevil, who like me was once of their party, no Anthony Mottram, no Riverside Multis. They are reduced, reduced to a drab stuffy couple one of whom once called me, to my face, ‘rather pompous’. I think he thought ‘pompous’ meant ‘campy and queeny’. Can you imagine the ignorance?

Speaking of which, yesterday I went to Florence, to fetch Elsa Hodgeman, her mother, Lady Newell, and her daughter, Elinor, from the airport. Would you believe it, the Prada shop in Via Tornabuoni in restauro! Chiuso! Just as well, really, I’ve not a penny to spend. But, walking through the city, I suddenly thought: the Pazzi chapel is near here. So I peered through the grille in the Piazza Santa Croce. There it was, sitting, complete, tiny and perfect, at the end of the garden beside the church. Maybe you don’t know the Pazzi Chapel. It is one of the earliest Renaissance buildings, by Brunelleschi. The headmaster of my prep showed us pictures of it. I’ve always known it. It looked more dun and more extraordinary than I remembered. But there it was, not seen by me for at least 15 years. For some reason I felt a little tearful. It was the same when I rounded the corner at the end of Via Tornabuoni and there were the Arno, the Ponte Vecchio and the Ponte Trinitá. Elsa Hodgeman said it was all to do with the English middle class mania for Florence as the cradle of modern European civilisation.

Today the Multis have roared forth in their hired convertible to a wine-tasting. They seem to be aiming to taste all the wines of Chianti before, perhaps, launching into production themselves. One of them is dressed in an amazing tropical get-up circa 1950 – white jacket, shorts, but bizarre slip-ons giving a unique touch.

Last night there was just a little hiss and scratch when the outdoor table had to be re-positioned to accommodate the enlarged party. Too many cooks were spoiling the broth. One of the multis had to take control and the rest of us were heaving the heavy marble slabs. It was found necessary to count the floor tiles to get the exact middle. I forgot to mention that a few days ago Angus Willis had a fit when he discovered I’d put salt in the beans before putting them on to boil. ‘They’ll be hard,’ he snapped, ‘hard.’ And then at dinner that day the gorgeous Fergus Strachan (he’s the lawyer partner of Angus Willis) suddenly got into a tremendous state about Statins and begged certain members of the party to up their doses. There was also a bit of set-to about the Congestion Charge. In London you have to pay to enter a central zone in your car. The Multis are massively against. They adore Mrs Thatcher. So they don’t like bossy, interfering rules and regulations. In fact, when and if she dies, you had better phone them at once and offer condolences. Fergus and I mad for the Con Charge. Before I knew it, I was screeching, ‘If we don’t cut down on car use, the planet is doomed.’ One of the Multis brilliantly deflected the situation: ‘You’d be marvellous on Question Time.’ – it’s a political discussion programme. He meant: terrible, tub-thumping bore. What’s more, I’ve been just a little coy about my poor performance at Bridge on Tuesday occasioning some plain-speaking from one of the Multis.

 But soon, we’re seeing the funny side. I said to Angus Willis, ‘That was a superb cat snarl on your face brought on by the bean crisis.’ I don’t think the Multis will kick me out of their lives, unlike Robin Smallmeal and Simon Limpney. Money for the Multis is freedom: to buy as they want, to treat their friends, perhaps to stock pile against the future.

I have gone on too long. Have we really probed the question: why are we rich, even if not as rich as the Multis? Could we have remained as we were in youth?

In the evening, Donatella appeared to do some uncalled for gardening. We suspect that her real purpose was to display a particularly lovely jungle-print sun-frock to an exceptionally appreciative audience.

Donatella in early evening gown