Friday 27th March 2015

Aunt Smidge, since her sad passing two weeks ago, is already coming more sharply into focus as a person. Her funeral service splendidly reflected her horror of attention being drawn, her quiet life of almost nun-like contemplation in a country cottage for many years not undimmed by a taste for gossip and the ridic plus unconventional interests for a lady of her class and background, not least Ottolenghi. We all felt much better for it. Extraordinary how much mention of clothes at the funeral, before, during and after. The Gay Mother’s suede coat, bequeathed to her by Aunt Frankie in 1979 and recently refurbished by Val, was seized upon the second she disgorged from the limo. My Topman tweed two-piece suit was admired by a man of 85 plus from the James Bond era of business in London, i.e. the Sixties, now living in the country’s depths, the flat in London long given up. I said, ‘It’s Topman, meant for teenagers. £150.’ The Gay Mother couldn’t believe the mention of prices. He said his was Marks and Spencers. And very fine too. Aunt Smidge had a younger half-sister, tres riche, richer than Multis for sure, whose trouser suit made a huge impact. The Gay Mother and I got home and battled on in the garden. I’ve always said that frockage is such a huge part of the battle against Death.