Saturday 19th January 2013

Just suddenly, in this snowy murk, my home healed. Miroslav has been here, repointing the back wall. The dust and horror ! Then yesterday, suddenly my home healed. Really not too bad. Acres and acres more to do, of course, but just for a bit, the home was restful, not a torment.

On Wednesday, nine dined. Genevieve Suzy briefed on the Julie Burchill affair ( we know them all: Suzanne, Julie, Muriel McGlorian, all those women), Fergus Strachan’s Dermarolla REALLY HAS WORKED. His cheeks are entirely new. Still, he longs for confidence. I said, ‘Confidence is ghastly. Leads to rubberiness and drear.’ Angus Willis hopes to lose a stone (there’ll be nothing left). His Hasting Home Store Cellar has been flooded. I’m not sure whether the cancellation of the in-shop lunch service is related. But huge praise in the Guardian and Graph has only resulted in Angus cancelling the service. ‘I haven’t the time’ he arched. The Multis were adored by Genevieve and Mr Suzy was found to be a Tory, so they loved him. The Photo Multi was compared to Cartier Bresson (quite rightly) and has a new rabbit hat – it’s bright blue. Ordered from Kangol website in US. Merle Barr, formerly Head of Children’s Speech (no that’s not right: but Head of something, definitely a Head… ) also dined and sat next to Val, whose glories were many, despite a prophylactic pint of port consumed in preparation for the evening. What were they talking about? The old Cockney days? The transport of wigs from the wig-making districts to Belgravia? Val was not a Cockney, but South London.  Arriving at my home for the dinner and peering from the street through the window at the table laid and heaped with wares had reminded him of how, as a child, he’d gazed from without at such dining arrangements but never thought to be admitted.  I couldn’t believe it. Just a lot of old rubbish – not even solid silver.

Do get a bright blue rabbit fur hat.

I offered a chestnut and sage soup by Hugh Fearney Whittingstall. Angus was withering about Fearney. The soup was liked despite sweetness  (Fearney’s fault for suggesting carrot for the veg stock. The last thing you need with chestnut)  and the sage taste not coming through. My main was from Claudia Roden’s new Spanish cookery book – a beef casserole with port. I was doubtful but it turned out all right.

Switching to India, Lord Arrowby, my former part-time love interest, was sitting sadly at the Taj Bengal, Kolkata on Thursday night, weeping his return to England, so staff brought him a farewell cake  with icing writing which said, ‘Farewell, Lord Arrowby. Come back soon.’ In India he is most free. Now he will have to come back to London and begin being Queen Mary all over again (it’s an expression).

Tomorrow I board for the country. I’ve a board meeting. T and G whether I’ll get through the snow, even in the official car with Xenon driving lights.

By the way, Poor Little Rich Gays here and throughout the world, I want you to think: National Portrait Gallery: How are you to be portrayed there? As a mask of fury surrounded by fluorescent clouds, like Susan Goodyear? I happened to visit the National Portrait Gallery last Sunday before the Multis’ luncheon party. Well, I know them all! They’re all very close to me. But certain glaring omissions, which must at once be filled.

Which reminds me: I’ve quite forgotten to tell you about Laura Malcolm’s dinner last Saturday and the Multis’ luncheon last Sunday. Not to mention the scenes in the gastro pub  when Bruce McBain, my private architect, got in a bate and refused to sit with Tancredo Viamare, his special love of seven years, so all the party from the Private View went home. The Queen Mother dined at Laura’s and called for her mink on departure.

Also Heather, the dead Brighton dog! She’s to have a Memorial Service. Eddie Sedgewick, her owner, says, ‘Lucky she didn’t know any other dogs.’