Thursday 20th June 2013

At 11.32 I could have been happily hospitalised: hands shaking, unable to email. bilious. The carpetmen came at 8. Stairs the worst place to have new carpet put down because you can’t get up or down. Trapped in one room, unable to get out and on. There’s so little you can do in one room.

Today I’ve seen such an expanse of underpants. The carpetmen exposed, of course, as they bent over. Then the neighbours are up in folding and their builders are showing big time.

But a call came through from the head carpetman at 9.30. He was at the factory where they put on the border.

They’d done it wrong. Done a 2″ border when I wanted 1″.

Almost, almost I caved in. Almost, almost, I thought: Let the waves engulf me. Let’s have it all wrong, let’s say it’s just human and charming. But, great mercy, oh merciful, I just had the strength to resist.

So now I’ve got partial old rose stair carpet – the part with no border. I’m just a little bit wondering whether the colour isn’t tending to hotel.

After the carpetmen had gone I could hardly vac. So weak. But after lunch, a sudden miraculous surge, life coming back. I was out to Waitrose and really making inroads into the Glyndebourniana picnic for Saturday. Such pressure because tomorrow the Multis buy a country house and Prince Dmitri and I visit it at once. I’m so worried we’re to be there for lunch. I just can’t manage it.  The Multis could execute me at any moment, refuse to see me for good – if I can’t lunch.

We overnight in the new house then go on to Glyndebourniana from it. Hence picnic today. Of course, the Multis could throw away the new house on Sunday or even on Saturday. It might be the most expensive one-night stay ever. They might take against the house and just chuck it out.

Then on Sunday I go to the Gay Mother’s. But what about all my seedlings? I’ve got plants to get in now the garden opening is over, as well.

There’s another thing – thinking of underpants. Dreadful news from Val, who has massively de-bottled and become hideously aware of London Fashion week. The most awful thing – high waists might be back. And pleats. Trousers with pleats. You know what that means. The death of the jackette. And having to wear horrible sacky, baggy slacks.

‘You’ll have to throw away all your little peggy leggy trews!’ Val warbled with thrill down the phone. He’s always been against the dolly look.

Well, I just won’t believe it. They tried it before, but everyone loves the low waist and the narrow leg – so flattering and such an opp to show the pants.

It’ll never happen. No, no, no.

Oh no! Look what’s happened. I never got round to Joshua Baring dining with the gosling Poor Little Rich Gays. Nor the Garden Opening and how Lord Arrowby man-ed my door in paisley panels.

Come back! Come back soon!