Monday 31st December 2012

Never have Poor Little Rich Gays known such a Christmas! What abundance!

Today I’ve lunched and am to party out. I’m cramming you in between engagements.

• Already, on the rentré, the Multis have given a charming intimate dinner (they’re feeling hopeful about 2013 which is a HUGE sign) and Val, unsauced, free of refreshment, had seven to lunch today including the Multis and some new Poor Little Rich Gays, one of whom had had a stroke of which the other did brusque impersonations. ‘If we weren’t living in Bow, he’d be dead,’ she declared. Marvellous hosp, thank God.
• See below the Photo Multi’s Christmas styling of the penthouse. He’s frilled the outside of the entire building around the top edge with lights – all self-done – easily 200 metres. Absolutely outstanding.
• I’ve banned certain Christmas carols. But other new glories have surfaced this year. There’s always more, isn’t there? More and more. ‘Thou who wast rich beyond all splendour’ actually has the same tune as ‘What is that smell?’ as heard at Mr Teasy Weasy’s gourmet destination restaurant or rather in the church next door. Do Google. Also ‘Hark what a sound and too divine for hearing.’ Utterly lovely.
• Now the Christmas food – Cousin Smurry abolished the traditional Christmas dinner some years ago – I’m sure you remember – on account of her new dog. At first I was far from pleased. Last year she offered Ottolenghi Chicken and Lemon and I thawed a little. This year it was an excellent pork, fully organic, with celebration sauces. I didn’t really grasp how this was less effort than the full bird. But the really staggering thing is Cousin Smurry’s developing Poor Little Rich Gay tendencies. Yes! Yes! Yes! It emerged that she’s been rehearsing possible Christmas menus since October. Actually cooking dishes to see if they’d do. ‘I don’t ever want to see venison again,’ she said. Well done, Cousin Smurry!
• Meanwhile the Gay Mother was in search of the perfect sprout over Christmas. Always trying to get back to the sprouts she grew years ago which were open like a flower, very small and with nutty flavour. Where, oh where are those sprouts?
• The Gay Mother and I visited Mrs Dinner as always. She cleaned for us for years, from the 50s easily. Now demented and in a nursing home but with more jewellery and grand coiffure than before. Jolly, unchanged from last year, still saying that her legs are bandaged because she fell off her bike. ‘Where’s the lady who cries?’ the Gay Mother inquired. As it happened she was wheeled in at that moment, a stroke victim possibly. ‘It’s no good crying,’ Mrs Dinner said. ‘You’re in here and well looked after and that’s it.’ She always says she’s well looked after.

Here is the Photo Multi’s radiant arranging of Christmas