Friday 23rd May 2014

I’ve gone on strike. I’ve got Dresden to cover, as well as Emilia Romanga, the Jean-Paul Gautier Exhib, the Chelsea Flower Show, tomorrow is Glyndebourniana, Monday I’m going down a Brunel tunnel with Reggie Cresswell whose 60th Birthday it will be; don’t event think about the usual backbone of dinners, functions, outings, seedlings to be tended.

I haven’t been able to get near the Prada shop in weeks. This afternoon, with Glyndebourne picnic hanging over me, I forged two hours for it. Caution was flung and I set out. I’m supposed to be living a rich life with infinite fittings, all day to perfect a tart but in fact I never sit down, tasks are always heaped up all around, at times I can barely breathe and all I’ve got for the Prada shop is two hours.

One nice thing happened. I opened the front door and found the Queen had been round and dropped off a package. It’s her Cookbook, delivered to me in person.

But in the Prada shop I stood and was ignored. At last an attendant took a slither of notice. ‘I’m looking for gorgeous, fitted summer trousers, in stretch fabric.’ Normally I sit on the banquette and they bring me delicious things from the back. But the slapper said, ‘If it’s not on the shelf we haven’t got it.’ Or words to that effect. I couldn’t believe it. ‘Where’s the book?’ I said. No book. Try upstairs. I try upstairs. Nothing but middle-aged golfing apparel. I go back downstairs. I stand by the counter. Am ignored. Assistant is standing there. I have to make first approach. Now the story is , they’ve sold most of the summer collection. Get some more, I say. I try again for the book. At last it is produced. I leaf through. Nothing but sacky, baggy jumper and skirt look (or trousers for men, if you must) with belt. Horror. I phone Joshua Baring, who has a finger in every pie. ‘Phone Miuccia and get the Summer collection cancelled,’ I say.

The Queen Sends Me a Package

It’s Her Cookbook

Royal Table Setting

Royal Menu