Friday 16th August 2013

Despited wracked nights for the Multis, their reign in Tuscany is pure sunshine. ‘You must not write on Facebook,’ the Blond Multi said to me, Adrian Edge, this morning, ‘that you’re an old bag. It’s so not true.’ I hugged the Multi in gratitude. I have to tell you, he’s rock solid in the torso, a massive hewn hunk. Later his swimming trunks fell out of the window (see graph below).

This is the fifth Tuscan summer in a row given by the Multis. You remember at the outset there was such fear. Would the Multis, like wretched Robin Smallmeal and his lacrymose partner, Simon Limpney, exact a price for their generosity? Would they declare the friendship terminated on a whim, slam down the phone and refuse even to be in the room with… as Smallmeal and Limpney did to me, Adrian Edge.  By money they were entitled to behave as they liked.

But no, the Multis have not crushed, have not exacted a price. They are beginning more and more to purr steadily with their money while remaining touchingly anxious to give the very best to their guests. ‘Are you sure you want to take a wine-tasting? Are you sure you want to dine out?’ Even when we all say ‘Yes’, still they worry that we are not happy or that there is not enough for lunch.

On Tuesday we dined at Papavero, in Barbischio behind Gaiole in Chianti, the chemistry master’s delightful artisanal summer restaurant . Eight Poor Little Rich Gays were stared at by other diners from the Central of Europe. As well they might: they were looking at 50 million solid block worth easily, including pensions. We were 50 minutes ordering (to match the 50 million solid block worth) with three wines to be tried (although all ordered rather than whittled down) and the specials to be carefully revised and re-explained by the chemistry master. Then César-Kaiser, the great new love of Connor Cadoux, of the Australian Poor Little Rich Gays, said, ‘What about the labels?’ His vision was two-fold: which was the best label and which best reflected the contents. He insisted on having them all lined up for examination.

Later César-Kaiser took very much against my skirts which are in fact Turkish cloth wraps worn in baths and given me by Anthony Mottram, my oldest and closest friend. César-Kaiser and MacLeish MacLeish, adored partner of Marcus Cargill, England’s leading clock-mender, are at this very moment watching back epis of Coronation Street on an iPad in the courtyard. The theme music is just playing for their 3rd epi in a row.

I tried to explain to César-Kaiser the complex web of relations, how I was near-married to Anthony Mottram for 43 years but then he married another. Connor Cadoux came by: ‘He’s filling your head with nonsense, César-Kaiser,’ he said. ‘Don’t listen to a word of it.’

But actually, little does Connor Cadoux know that Anthony Mottram now sees that I, Adrian Edge, was as if amputated when he married another.

There have been developments. We both love the truth and have done all our years together. A certain bracing coldness, teetering on a knife-edge, so easily mistaken for ‘bitch’ or cruelty, is what we have loved.

The Multis would never speak to me in such a way nor would Prince Dmitri, who said this week, ‘The Multis are deeply serious people.’

Marcus Cargill, England’s leading clock-mender, loomed at my side on the way to the car park after the Papavero dinner, which was thrilling but draining what with the classic Poor Little Rich Gay quest for perfection. ‘My friend Barker saw you on TV.’ He’d seen me, Adrian Edge, on TV. ‘He thought you were bonkers.’

The Blond Multi has suggested I bring out a book of all the Poor Little Rich Gays who have met crikation in their 50s. That means their lives have gone badly wrong and are unlikely to resume the rails. The Photo Multi prefers that I write on the subject of disastrous holidays. Both are must-writes.

The Blond Multi dwells much on crikation, as it happens. It comes from ‘Crikey’, a common, if old-fashioned, exclamation. Anthony Mottram and I developed ‘crik-ment’ and then ‘crikation’ and finally the condition of being ‘criked.’ When poor June Cut-Deeping lay dying in the hospital in Hampshire, Anthony Mottram said to me, ‘You’ll find her quite criked,’ as I motored to visit her.

Off now for the final dinner of this phase of Tuscany 2013. Tomorrow I self-villa at La Foce.

Dear, Darling Tuscany, Unsurpassed

The Road Down to the Molino di Castagnoli, Taken by Anthony Mottram and Myself in Our First Year of Adult Life, 1976, at £40 a Week. MacLeish MacLeish said, ‘I Can’t Believe You Were 19 and Launched on Tuscan Villas When All Your Contemporaries Were Going to Deep Purple Concerts.’

Our Private Wine Tasting at Brolio: on the Mats was Printed ‘The Photo Multi’s Party’

The Blond Multi Met with Crikation: His Swimming Trunks All that Remained