Monday 14th November 2011
I know…such riches promised…my vision of what love is… in addition Dinner at Heston to be evoked…
But the Gay Mother, 87, is having her bathroom done up. ‘White tiles,’ she says, for the bath surround. ‘What kind of white tiles?’ I inquire. ‘Oblong? Square? Thin? Fat? Smooth or Provencal finish? Beveled? What colour grout? What house for the tiles? Bruce MacBain favours Johnson and Johnson. You’ll be three weeks choosing at least. ‘ ‘Oh, I’m not interested in any of that.’ What about the tiling module? Where will the short ends go? Grid or ‘brick’ lay-out? You need Bruce MacBain (he’s my private architect)….I’m sure he could helicopter down…’
A bit of a pause at the Gay Mother’s end of the telephone: ‘I don’t think I’ll be making a scene about some tiles.’
Agony!
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The Gay Mother’s good sense shines through. LIke all PLRGs I am neurotically afflicted by too much choice about things that don’t matter.
Good! Thank God! The Gay Mother will be sorry when she’s got two short ends colliding. What about Michelangelo enlarging those scrolls in the vestibule of the Laurentian Library, Florence, to distract from the room being too high? Bruce MacBain, our private architect, agonising over a tiling module, descends directly from that.
You say ‘things that don’t matter’. But what else would there be to do? Actually the Gay Mother said, ‘Someone else will come along soon and sweep it all away.’ In other words, ‘I’m old. There’s no point in bothering.’
So there we have it: detail, styling, improving, ever-expanding decor, arching frockage keep death-thoughts at bay, are life itself.
But really: where will the short ends go?!
It’s true that interior design and outfits keep death thoughts at bay. But how marvellous that the Gay Mother can surge above such concerns.
The Gay Mother was took bad this morning, unable to speak and had to have the doctor out. But by eve was revived and preparing to receive more builders and plumbers tomorrow