Saturday 29th September 2012

I’m giving you one graph – just look at it! One of the most famous buildings in the world, after hours, closed to the public, completely looking out to the lagoon and San Giorgio…

What a week! I’m inert on the sofa. Monday: Trustees’ Meeting in the country; Tuesday: return from the country, Lewis and Wood shop opening in Chelsea, then on to Angus Willis’ birthday dinner at St John (Archie Brahms and Charlie Hurling have opened a shop. boiled wool sofas to be huge for Christmas. Charlie didn’t think of the worst thing to say and say it. All he said was ‘My sofa’s rejected me.’); Wednesday: jet to Venice in the evening, gain one-night cheap at 1 a.m.; Thursday: day in Venice, lunch with Peter Ainger in gondoliers’ self-service restaurant, Peter Ainger’s book launch at the Doge’s Palace in the evening, return to London, regain official home at 3 a.m.; Friday: dine with Frankie-Doreen May and Giles Ullerston; Saturday: dine with the Multis and Prince Dmitri Hersov.

But last Saturday! Huge, huge! Muriel McQueen’s 50th birthday. I managed to gain entry. By rights I’m not at her level. But Princess Irina Hersov, Prince Dmitri’s sister, and Muriel have bonded over the fallen parapet. I lobbied through Fergus Strachan, who is absolute bosom with Muriel from uni days . ‘How much to go to the party?’ ‘The price of the parapet,’ he said. Finally I was fielded as Princess Irina’s lady, free of charge.

Classic Poor Little Rich Gay: in two ways I know Muriel McQueen and Sid Id. Oh belonging!

With Princess Irina, I entered the throbbing core. Sid Id himself, modern legend and master of the house, Muriel’s husband, was in the hall. ‘Drinks are downstairs,’ he said in that unique dead-pan tone known to millions. Later he was seen opening a champagne bottle, so hard  for he must not touch a drop, of course. Hearts bled for him, or at least mine did. Secretly I’ve a bit of a pash for Sid Id.

Sir Nicholas Cave! He’s a Gothic Singer, or Pop Musician. Entirely new shape of head . Barry Humphries – no! John Humphrys: ‘I was on your show!’ No recollection, of course. He was exceptionally nippy in movement. Almost flying about. Up and down the stairs. Tiny man.

On the kitchen work-top – Janet Street-Porter. Marvellous fresh skin. Imposing. Aubergine rinse.

Oh, it was beginning. A cascade. Everyone who’s columnar on the Guardian, all in torment, wearing fashion versions of school uniform. India Knight, statuesque, God-like,  with Eric Joyce: ‘You must meet Eric Joyce,’ she cried. That’s Lord Haw-Haw, I thought privately. This Eric Joyce was a friendly Irishman, apparently entirely unconnected with journalism and the world of books.

Suzanne Moore! Still in the fuck-me heels, despite Germaine’s horridness. Another household name, delightful to meet, always remembers me, Adrian Edge, not a bit journo, intensely preoccupied with Stoke Newington affairs.

There was an interlude for Muriel’s speech. She described a hospital death bed scene. A lady dying but a festive riot of friends and relations all around her bed. She jolly too but intermittently she’d throw back her head and wail, ‘If you didna come, I’d have nobody.’ That’s how Muriel felt about all of us. Sid Id was in the front row disrupting in some way I couldn’t quite hear and not at all in the grotesque manner of banter required on such occasions.

Muriel then gave herself up to the dance floor. She’d chosen 50 songs, one from each year of her life. The Gilmores had arrived! Lady Polly, whippy in huggy black and white splodgy frock and elegant black clucks with 4 inch spike, was jiving. The head of Bird’s Nest Books appeared. ‘I’ve been reading your reviews.’ What reviews? ‘They loved the interlude in the marsh.’

????

In the garden Sid Id was attempting to drive guests out of a flower bed. ‘Could you try not to step on the plants.’ He was not seen again but later, we heard, descended to usher guests who had become interminable out of the house.

At last, at last, Angus Willis and Fergus Strachan arrived. At once Angus was lionised.  ‘Your review!’ they howled. ‘Your review in the Guardian!‘ Oh, oh, oh! The triumph. It had appeared that morning. The Angus Willis Homestore in Hastings has recently opened for food as well as wire-brush shopping. The Guardian woman went down with claws out for poor Angus but ended up adoring.

As well she might: a shop may not be much to you, but Angus’s gift for food and interiors is as valuable as the vision of the person who might bring running water to the half of India that hasn’t got it.

So Angus and his review in the Guardian were the bedrock of the evening. Hope to cling on to! Hope!

Car and Driver at Muriel MacQueen’s 50th Birthday Party

Yes! I was There! Come Back Later to Hear