Saturday 11th December 2016

Genevieve Suzy phoned on Sunday at lunchtime: ‘We need a piece to camera on Her love of fake fur…. by 6 o’clock,’ she goes. ‘Well, I’m just working on stains, planting bulbs and touching up paintwork,’ I say, ‘but it can be managed’. Indeed the cogs were already whirring as she was speaking. She’s got a real fur coat, given her by the Mink Breeders of America in 1957. She wore it to visit a supermarket there, which was a special request since she’d never seen one before. The fur was out again when she opened the Victoria Line in March 1969. She rode in the public carriage without the public in it, wrapped in mink. But what of recent trimmings and accessories? Fur is essential for a Queen in winter, but has she gone fake?

Fake fur is one of the wonders of our age. How it’s come on! Progress in fake fur is a real reason to stay alive. Perhaps it’s keeping her alive as well.

Then Genevieve phones back and leaves a message: ‘I’ve got a crisis. Call at once.’ This time I text: ‘But I’m working on stains, touching up paintwork, planting bulbs and doing a piece to camera on her love of fake fur, a love which possibly will be news to her herself.’ ‘You must ring back:’ Genevieve was steely. So I give in. ‘I’m locked in the loo and about to make a dash for the front door,’ she whispers. I can’t imagine what has happened. Is she under armed siege? ‘Can I have 20 minutes of your time? I’ll bring a mince pie.’

So Genevieve arrives, ashen. In a little bag is the mince pie, plus one for her. Clearly it was kettle on even though only 3.30. Settled with the good Indian Tree set, she regained her breathing and poured forth. She’d rented out a flat but the tenant’s publicity photo was just a wheeny bit photo-shopped and the novel just ever so slightly self-published. Plus he paid late in dodgy cash then jacked in on staying the full 4 weeks as agreed. Genevieve sent a text to her friend on the Mail not saying even half of this, only that he’d not paid. She couldn’t have been more restrained. But horror of horror, she hadn’t sent it to her friend on the Mail, she’d sent it to the implausible tenant himself – who’d snapped back, ‘How disappointing!’

We did breathing and focused on fashion and hair. After half an hour the whole episode had been forgotten.

Then we had to get through to Buckingham Palace. ‘This footage of her in a green coat with a fur hat… is the hat fake?’ BP couldn’t confirm. There was nobody there who knew, not in the whole Palace. ‘We’re running as fake,’ I say, with all of Dainty Lady TV leaning at my back. ‘I hope you’ll back us up if anyone complains.’ The cameras were advancing towards me already. ‘We’ve asked everybody here,’ BP go, getting a bit plaintive. ‘It’s so shiny. We all think it must be fake.’ So the entire ensemble of Dainty Lady TV and all of Buckingham Palace were peering at that footage, trying to decide.

The piece, when finished, was lovely beyond compare – because of fur.

No, It’s Not Real Mink