Friday 20th April 2012

The richness! The riches! Rufus Pitman’s launch was in a jewellery store! Bruce MacBain tried to get the glass cabinets open. Susan Goodyear was there, as well as Beth Murdo. Huge names! More to come, more to come. Then on to the Picasso.

But Val – as you know, probably our most extreme Poor Little Rich Gay Rich, really teetering on the verge, but radiant in horror. He’s been hip-snapped since September, apres un tombe (after a fall) while lavishly refreshed. So on crutches, due a hip replacement in early May, very dependent on TV, as you might imagine.

Now could he re-tune his set to digital mode upon the analogue signal being switched off ? Could he, buffalo? QF (quite frankly) sauced beyond hope of any progress with a remote. So I go over Monday to find him lurching, his remote actually saturated with Pepsi. I achieve digital for him, except BBC2, which shows for five seconds then flips to the next channel. Why? Why? Why? I say to Val, ‘Ring the Digital helpline.’ He didn’t though. He rang Bridget Kendall. Such an old friend. The Diplomatic Correspondent of the BBC. Household name, of course. Bridget Kendallerama. It’s never been revealed whether any relation of Kenneth Kendall (small dogs, Brighton) who used to read the television news years ago. I think any connection unlikely. He was always known as the Kenneth Kendall machine. She is Bridget Kendallerama.

Quite unable to assist re: the digital switchover apparently.What is the use?

Otherwise Val was preoccupied with Ladies’ Day at Aintree Racecourse. He’d cut a graph out of the Guardian (see below). Somebody said, ‘Pigs in chiffon’ which isn’t very nice. Val said, ‘They’ll all be carrying stiletto bouquets by the end of the day.’

I’ve not heard that before, have you? ‘Stiletto bouquet’. It would be that their heels are killing them and they’re carrying their footwear.Geddit?

There was something of a tussle in the kitchen. Val announced pork chops with juniper and high-end tinned petit pois; then immediately hacked out the decoration. It was to be just the chops. ‘You’ll have to cook them,’ he declared regally. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘another little drop won’t do you any harm.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You’re somewhat stimulated,’ I said. Val sprayed me with a Roget et Gaillet floral spray. ‘Marvellous for the whisky fumes,’ I said. Then I did my imitation of Mildred, from Jewel in the Crown, utterly plastered, trying to meet the Nawab. She sways on the spot,murderously trying not fall over, giving a remarkable final effect of appalling hauteur.

We laughed.

Val heaved into the kitchen and began the chops somewhat randomly. I spied the tin of petit pois by the stove. ‘What are those?’ I said. ‘Shall we have them?’ So we did. I managed to get the juniper re-instated as well.

Eating, Val spoke of his friend Bobby Cartland: ‘She’ll be in the House of Lords any minute, you know. She’s on every committee to do with children failing to thrive.’

‘What about you?’ I said. ‘Think what you’ve done for neglected foodstuffs…such as the high-end tinned petit pois.’

Which is the greater achievement? There’s no doubt in my mind.

Ladies Day at Aintree: Saved from the Guardian by Val