Saturday 19th July 2014
Fortune brings contempt. I’m plunged into one of the greatest crises of my career. The first week of our Tuscan villa is under threat. A villa for six occupied by only two looks the likely prospect, even though that other person is dear, philosophical Prince Dmitri. Val came back from Bulgaria on Monday where he made crowns for the orphans for their big-time show last Saturday. I can’t remember the theme this year. In previous years, it has been Bollywood, or Chinese. Maybe this year it was San Francisco. A San Francisco theme. Anyway, the plane bearing Val and Robert Nevil back from Bulgaria circled so many times above Row that Val had no choice but to pour a stiff Scotch on regaining and then another. Now he’s sending abusive messages to me, Adrian Edge. I’m afraid I must replace him for the first week in Tuscany. Flights are paid for but will a single available last min emerge? This would not be the absolute end, except that the other guests expected in the first week are Connor Cadeaux and Cesar Kaiser who undertook to take 4 villa nights but have still not booked flights and don’t communicate. Torture.
I am reminded of how once, taking a large party to Glyndebourniana to see Tristan, in the days before Glyndebourniana became one’s way of life (even though the man who built the Channel Tunnel was of the party and the picnic had been prepared by Lady Norrington’s kitchen staff and Liz Whipp, the struck-off oncologist, also was expected but had been inexplicably air-lifted from the Glyndebourniana neighbourhood by the Authorities the day before) – to convey the large party I failed to resist the opportunity to replace my in those days modest Official Car with no Zenon driving lights, to substitute a large limo-type Mercedes, hired for the day. The look of utter contempt and hatred, even at Glyndebourniana, spat in the car park at one’s assumption of a Mercedes level! Fortune brings contempt. So with the Tuscan villa.

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