Monday 5th August 2013

The Multis closed Glyndebourniana on Saturday with their 4th Glyndebourniana. Saturday is the trek to Tuscany in search of gold. They took Glyndebourniana with the Blond Multi’s former business partner who is Norweyan and knits Norweyan jumpers as well as being a multi in her own right. It’s very doubtful whether the Blond Multi embraces opera. He’d rather be at Wembley with George Michael. But there we are. Glyndebourniana is a calling that all must hear.

The Multis have made themselves gloriously known. Everywhere they appear with champagne, even at a student art show where they established a Bollinger corner. Prince Dmitri Hersov reckons their monthly champagne output is £400 min.

With the Prince I visited the new Multi country branch, a Kentish farm house with 32 derelict acres to be renovated for a year. From it we went to Sissinghurst where the Photo Multi nearly brought down the National Trust: he made the Blond Multi stand in the border, right amongst the plants, to be graphed.

Never, never has such sacrilege been known at Sissinghurst.

In the library there’s a new policy – they’ve put a sofa and visitors are allowed to lounge on it to get the full Vita and Harold experience. But when the Blond Multi picked up a nearby priceless bibelot, an alarm went off.

The Blond Multi’s bought a shop. He is seeking retail advice. ‘What do residents in the area want?’ I said. ‘Something horrendous I’m not going to give them,’ he said. We envisage an all-day restaurant/cafe service of complete brilliance, style to be decided. Residents will flock. At present the shop is an empty shell, not even toiletted.

Oh the Multis allow themselves to be fully known. Their boundaries bound without limit. On Friday, the Blond Multi lunched me at Zucca in Bermondsey Street after our session of retail therapy  – I mean I inspected the retail premises, so beyond retail therapy in actually providing the retail. Arriving before him, I managed to get the table changed before he did. At Glyndebourniana the previous Saturday, for Figaro, the Photo Multi ordered the picnic table moved into the sun at the beginning of the long interval.

‘When you wake in the night,’ the Blond Multi whispered to me recently (we both are wracked by insomnia), ‘do you start worrying?’ He seemed to think this a terrible thing to confess. But both Multis are looking ravishing at the moment and have a new policy of meeting new younger Gays on whose terraces they take champagne (their own). On that Sissinghurst visit the Multis soothed my own bleeding wound of three and a half years as few others have done.