Saturday 30th March 2019

I’ve been closeted at home in private confab very much. That’s when not out at functions, such as two funeral/mems (one in Ireland), one Antiques Fayre, one Cosi, one Company by Sondheim, three Press Views of Historic Homes, and one National Garden Scheme Press Launch.

Mineral matters are improved. Assignation of the Lease was screamed for two Fridays ago. Then we heard that the other side had not completed. They did not complete for another 4 days. Very nearly all was lost. But it wasn’t. But Mineral Wealth will not resume. Now is the time for recriminations. I phoned up Russia yesterday and had a go at them.

Connor Cadeaux dined at my home and briefed me exclusively on the EU. It’s very bad. He had dinner with the Japanese ambassador who said they’d pull out (all their business). The EU won’t give us anything nice. Our side are hopeless. No ideah of how to negotiate. Business and banking offered to help but offer rejected. So deal negotiated without presence of those most affected. Another day Prince Dmitri came round and said that Ottolenghi have brought out a book of simple recipes. He described one which he had made a day or two earlier. The account took only about ten minutes. Later he sent me the actual recipe. All you need are special kebab sticks, a named sherry vinegar and burrata, not from a supermarket obvs. The marinade only has five ingredients, including fennel seeds. Clear the kitchen for the chargrilling of the grapes is hazardous. Couldn’t be easier.

The following week we were in Polpo, Duke of York’s plaza after the Antique Fayre when Lord Arrowby came in with a companion… I didn’t tell you that Lord A has been elevated. How is that possible, you ask? How can he go any higher? Well, he can. The great event is this coming week, followed by luncheon in Piccadilly. But there’s a chance he might be Prime Minister by then in which case the whole thing will be awff. At Polpo Prince Dmitri briefed me on how the Irish speak, in preparation for my visit.  He was brought up there in exile from White Russia.

My dinner for the Hurlings, Merle Barr, Miss Mini Miracle, Angus Willis and Fergus of course… roasted fennel trodden into the matting, chicken bones flying in all directions, Miss Mini entirely self-menuing and no wine. Lucky I had some old gin knocking around. Azure said the Hackney Council were trying to make him remove his Tete a Tete from outside his shop. ‘Tete a Tete,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine?’ It’s a kind of small daffodil, if you don’t know. ‘But I thought your shop was let as a Japanese Pornography outlet,’ I queried. ‘Oh it is, but I’m still doing street flowers.’ Meanwhile, Archie and Angus were recalling the days of their youth, spent together. Archie’s stepfather always toilet-ed before carving, which infuriated Archie’s mother. One Sunday he came back untidy from the toilet. ‘There’s a speck on your nose,’ the family informed him. He brushed at it and it flew onto Aunt Beryl’s plate whom never noticed. Did you ever hear a more revolting story? I would never have survived such an event. It’s even worse than the toilet scene in that Indian film, ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ – on account of which I’m never going to India.  There was another woman they knew who always assessed any new face she came across: ‘Queen Anne face,’ she would proclaim. ‘Queen Anne face,’ tugging at the face also. Then they moved on to buckets. Merle came greatly to life: ‘My bucket blew away,’ she said. On her allotment, she meant, where she had placed a bucket upside down for the forcing of rhubarb. Terrible uproar and end-of-the-pier at the table. She and Miss Miracle were the only ladies present.

So that’s my private life for the time being.