Saturday 5^th December 2009

So much excitement and I’ve got the tulips in (well, some of them). But I promised you Delia.

Her book signing was on Thursday at John Lewis, Oxford Street. I didn’t see any of you there, despite my hortations.

She was stationed at a bleak little table bang in front of the entrance to the food hall, which is really Waitrose. Honey-coloured, frockage battered and scuffed, odd grey sack, not bearing out my theory that the super-rich are a different species, their hue magical and elusive of description. ‘Not too close,’ she squealed at the bank of photographers, ‘I’m getting on a bit.’ Voice not of the best.

And the queue….well….Tim Hely Hutchinson, Britain’s leading publisher (friend of the Multis, quite out of my league: more of a Rich Little Rich Gay by all accounts), apparently decreed, since too many authors were getting self-up, that to be a celebrity you had to attract a crowd of 2000 min to a book signing and that the Police had to be present – on horseback.

Delia achieved a goodly queue through China and Glass of a few hundred.

As a Poor Little Rich Gay, lurking behind a frightful accordion-pleated glass vase, while Delia signed (don’t ask about the book: it’s called Delia’s Happy Christmas. None of us will be reading it), my situation was perilous. I could hardly be an ordinary member of the public. If I were ever in a news story and described as an ordinary member of the public, do you think I could sue?  Or ‘a motorist’ or ‘a passer-by’? On the other hand, Poor Little Rich Gays must be at the centre of things, so it’s hopeless trying to ignore celebrities or even names. We must have names to drop. Should we cultivate them and display them at our dinners?  I mean the actual people, not just the names. In which case, we might look like toadies.

What to do? What to do? There is something very fine and intricate to be said about the positioning of the Poor Little Rich Gay in relation to celebrity. But I am not yet able to say it.

Of course, there is no question of becoming a celebrity oneself – of any kind.  The True Poor Little Rich Gay is fractured, incomplete, every minute collapsing and re-forming as something else.

So I must skip away into light bitchery – why did Angus Willis fall out with Delia?  If I tell, will Delia sue?  Will you sue, Delia? Did you really say Angus could edit your copy? Did you give him recipes without lists of ingredients? And wasn’t it just a proof? Couldn’t it all have been changed if you didn’t like it? Apparently you sent an e-mail quite late at night. Angus thinks you might have regretted it the next day but by then it was too late.

Angus was having none of it.

Oh no!  I’ve left no time for Lord Arrowby and Rufus Pitman. Lord A was divine. And affectionate. I was speechless. Rufus said, ‘Now, George (for that is Lord Arrowby’s name, you know), it’s just like Mansfield Park. The person for you is here all the time.’

Wasn’t that nice of him? More tomorrow. Rufus had some outstanding perfume thoughts. Also, the Multis had a Chinese lunch – with sherry.

Delia with her book. Note the Mart Trolleys behind