Wednesday 1st June 2016

How to keep a grip on events? I’ve been 48 hours in the banter bus in Scotland. The Laird was at the wheel reciting the works of Robert Service which rhyme. A naughty back-row developed of Moira MacMatron, the Lairdess and Laura Malcolm herself. We whirled round the Isles and had such visits and elevation. Come back later for more.

But first I must re-trace. Of course, last week I was under intense pressure to acquire tartan for Scotland as well as do multiple pieces to camera for Her Majesty’s forthcoming second go at her Ninetieth Birthday. Not to mention gardening for the garden opening on 12th June which also looms ghastly.

That Hog-Roast has slipped into distant memory. The Estate gave the village (I refer to affairs in the Far West) a field to make up for the mineral outrage going on nearby. At 92, the Gay Mother was keen to take up the invitation to a tribute Hog-Roast and fire-work display. I wore my suede jacket which some years ago was declared a life-piece, with Zara spray-on jeans. ‘What is your connection with the family?’ I was asked. A fashion icon with a metropolitan tinge seemed not to fit in. Reverence for the Landed Gentry is a thing of the past. Villages now are middle-class. They were thrilled with their field but business-like. They’ve already planted fruit trees and plan a pleasure ground. For the Gay Mother the lack of deference was welcome. A speech was made and many were thanked from past and present and other families, not just ours. Then we queued for the hog-roast and took our plates to an indoor table within the Parish Hall. One of Aunt Lavinia’s former staff joined us to pick over old times: the worst being when she broke the ear of the Lalique cat. We couldn’t have loved it more. The Gay Mother was in constant confab after the hog-roast, weaving and connecting the past with the present, forging into the present, reaching out to the past. Finally there were triumphant fireworks and it was time to board for home. All of which  goes to show that dangling over a highly-wrought tart in one of the rich ladies’ dining areas at the Royal Opera House (as I shall be next Monday) is not essential for happiness – for some of the the time at least.

Fireworks Lit in the New Field Given to the Village in the Far West

The Final Burst of Glory: the Fireworks go Off in the New Field Given by the Family to the Village