Saturday 15th June 2013

Tomorrow is my garden opening for charity. I’ve got a cake in. There’s a possibly that Lord Arrowby, my former part-time love interest, might lunch. He’s going to help on the door at any rate, along with Robert Nevil and Bruce MacBain (one’s architect, so useful). The old foods are my craving just now. A fruit fool for summer, a Victoria sponge. Comforting.

The 1st Lady Curzon, Vicerene of India, was a chronic invalid. Her main purpose was Chicago railway money, provided by her father. She had to be carried to the carriage for a State dinner at which she could just about manage a quarter of a teaspoon of brandy before being carried back again.

She didn’t live long. The second Lady Curzon was apparently a moron, judging by her memoir. Once she got lost in the Black Forest.

But the 1st Lady Curzon – my feelings exactly. I’m crushed by functions and Poor Little Rich Gay life. My hands are ruined from bleaching. Last night I was at Miss Satisfaction’s for her 76th birthday. Tonight it’s Brabazon Brigadier’s 10th anniversary of being with Roddy Edward. They don’t appear to be married and certainly don’t live together – brill! But I’ve lost my zest. Three and a half years of fury have had to be relinquished. Still distance though and matters to be resolved and terrible wracking strain. Being furious more bracing. I could have had a normal life with caring types, leaning over, dripping with concern but chose instead the hard flinty path of the Poor Little Rich Gays.

Today the only beam has been Waitrose Essential Baby Frozen Broad Beans – they’re all right. Quite succulent. The two halves inside the skin a little bit mealy. But they’re good enough. Waitrose loved me enough not to crush me with bullet-like broad beans, passed off as baby.