Monday 3rd December 2012

Have been detained by state affairs and engagements.

I’ve little mentioned the ranch, lodged in the family for 2 centuries  and now under threat. For five years, Cousin Monica and Cousin Honor have struggled to save it, so hard with only half a Gainsborough the size of a postage stamp and two ancient cows lurching in the drive.  Last week a Dallas-style summit in the dining room.  Will Miss Ellie aka the Gay Mother fork for the other half of two fields? ‘I’m speaking,’ said the Gay Mother, matriarchal, cutting off Cousin Honor’s stream. Can a sour terrain in the village be sold for millions and given over to bungalows?

There have been scenes, I can tell you, in this struggle. But the really astonishing development is that Cousin Monica, sitting in the Ha-Ha doing the accounts – well, not a bit of it. She’s been reading the Poor Little Rich Gays! Never a word until it all came out in rather unfortunate circs. You would have thought there’d have been some sign, wouldn’t you, some sudden new mania for tiling modules or the daytime styling of the bedclothes? But no!

I’ve taken the unusual step of removing material. We can’t have every feud publicly aired. Not yet at least. But never mind, for Lo! behold a spectacular new honorary Poor Little Rich Gay!  Cousin Monica!

Meanwhile, on Thursday Royston King, king-pin of London’s Heritage, took me to dine officially at the Museum of London in their warehouse. 100 dined with actual museum pieces in historical order on the table. Paul Levy speeched and Royston was bursting with plans for the Museum with which he regaled the Director. He loves the work and has never known such power. He can give, or not give, millions. He was been renewed as giver by the committee.

What a perfect Poor Little Rich Gay destiny.

Carriages was a Routemaster Bus bound for Holland Park and Royston was able, in the end, to stow his bicycle on the lower deck. Previously we viewed privately the Museum’s store cupboards and drawers and saw a 13th century pottery colander as well as superb examples of Chelsea porcelain figures by a known maker.

Friday was Peter Achyra and Ned Czernowski’s party – Peter’s v. attract and youthful solicitor attended with new hot boyfr who had a tiny shirt, whippy waist and magnificent show-piece arse. Some New York lovelies, old friends of Ned and with me in Tobago during the money melt-down in 2008 (we sat in a drawing room in Tobago and watched on TV the red figures whirling down and down) were over and I was thrilled to be reunited with them. They had a private supply of whisky from a cupboard and could not grasp the mania for champagne. I discussed handbags with some neighbours. Bruce MacBain, my private architect, took to squeezing guests, lifting them off the ground and heaving towards the window. Much squealing of gays and delight. The Multis also graced and met a elegant gay of 91 who has recently modernised into a riverside modern apartment in the Docklands area.

On Saturday the Multis themselves gave a spectacular dinner at their neighbouring farm of which more later.

Yesterday I carried out engagements in the country with Aunt Lavinia. We drove in my official car with Xenon driving lights.

I haven’t forgotten Manchesterford either – I was there, you know. You must hear about the Gays of the North.