Thursday 9th July 2009

Michael Portillo! You won’t believe it, but he was there. Bronzed, well-preserved, almost the colour of very rich people (I’ll explain another time

And that was the least of it, as it turned out.

No, I drove in behind a terrifying black Mercedes. It halted in front of the house despite large signs saying ‘no stopping’. A chauf got out and started unloading picnic baskets. ‘Get out of the way!’ boomed Aunt Lavinia, who was sponsoring me at Glyndebourne as it were, and has the kind of voice that has kept hounds and stags in order through the centuries. A blacked-out rear window descended.  It was Robin Smallmeal – with the new grey hair!

My unrivalled arch enemy!

A jagged gash of electricity reared up between us.

Of course, his favourite trick is to drop off his 40-ton picnic right by the house to save lugging it from the car park miles away. They’d put up those signs just for him.

 We drove on. In the mirror I could see Smallmeal being told by an official to move on and his luggage being ignominiously re-loaded.

 ‘If we hurry,’ I said to Aunt Lavinia, ‘I know a really good picnic spot.’

 My plan worked perfectly. We got Smallmeal’s absolutely adored favourite place. He appeared ages later, wrecked with the weight of his accoutrements which would hardly fit into the only remaining picnic space, beside some hollyhocks which my aunt had dismissed as rather untidy.

 There was another great whip of leccy, which rather startled the other opera-goers.

 No sign of Limpney, thank goodness.

‘Who is that peculiar little man with all that grey hair?’ Aunt Lavinia bellowed.

  ‘That’s Robin Smallmeal,’ I said, ‘he’s huge in rubbish. Head of the landfill sites. Something like that. A mega-multi.’

 Fortunately she didn’t ask any more. It might have been awkward to explain how I know such things. In previous days, I was chauffed from Massivebury, the Smallmeal country residence, to Glyndebourne.

From then on, Aunt Lavinia proved invaluable. Her comments boomed straight to where Smallmeal thrashed around with his baskets, rugs, glassware and silverware. As he proudly produced his candlesticks, she declared that her late husband couldn’t stand the pretention of candlesticks at Glyndebourne. As he handed, to his porridge-coloured corporate accomplices, a medley of smoked fish with what appeared to be some kind of beetroot concoction as well as various other mayo-like blobs and a cube of some sort of jelly, she thundered that she didn’t mind a picnic as long as it was simple.

As for me, I couldn’t resist glancing every now and then at the new grey hair. I’d heard all about it. He used to be Mod Rock black. Then he had a wig made to see what he would look like grey. Then he went grey.

Every time I looked there was another zig-zag of electricity, becoming embarrassingly more conspicuous as darkness fell.

There was also an opera. Glyndebourne is marvellous, despite everything. It never fails.