I have plunged far from the Poor Little Rich Gay core into deepest Normandy to stay with Laura Malcolm at her rustic summer home. She is in a DIY outfit from Gap, 1997, self-painting the window frames.

Do you know Normandy? It is very simple. All complication of world cuisine, frockage, moisturiser, decor, soft top vehicles, bronzer, catered social functions, multi-dimensional relationships has been boiled away to leave a pure residue of cows, grass, butter, cream and half-timbering. Matt Driver, Laura’s husband, earns more than loathed friendship-terminator and landfill supremo, Robin Smallmeal, through shaping the consumer’s unconscious thinking about washing powder. Laura commands large advances for her books. But here they are dressed in rags and the batterie de cuisine is a bashed up camping set thrown out by Laura’s mother in 1985. Only the pure-bred blue mink cat, transported from Fulham, is walking wealth and greatness.

Esmé Manning, the actress, with her son Hopkin, 17, drove out with me on Sunday from London. At Dover, LD Lines offered a toxic unmoving hulk so rotted the very rats instinctively have quit it. In the lounge area, Esmé denounced the smell of school couscous. Even the ceiling was dented.

We will return by another route at any price.

 ‘Where are your Norman clothes?’ Kelm, Laura’s middle son, enquired over the bon accueil kir royale on Sunday night. Where indeed? I was in a shirt by Paulo Pecora of finest silk and cotton mousseline with three tiny pleats over the buttons. Yesterday I tried three outfits, including black Speedos and Pied a Terre slip-ons with a high-gleam mahogany look including grain. But all struck up a fear of the outdoors. I know no stout walking shoes. I have only taxi-to-table clucks or Prada bootees.

Look at the State of this Chair-Arm on LD Lines Cross-Channel Ferry

Bent Ceiling on LD Lines Cross-Channel Ferry

Laura Malcolm's Normandy DIY

Saturday 24th July 2010

I am surprised by my architect, Bruce MacBain, while applying a clothes brush to the interior of my new car in the street – I board tomorrow for Normandy for the annual heterosexual interlude at Laura Malcolm’s Norman fastness.

He crept up behind me. I absolutely screamed.

Pre-boarding tension isn’t the word. I still haven’t mended the split seam in my Alexander McQueen pale grey jeans. And they’re essential for the look I want in Normandy. I’ve been too busy applying bleach with a Q-tip to my less than satisfactory Balenciacga white jeans. Then in ironing dry a fly got squashed on them.

Had to start again.

Anyway, I said to Bruce MacBain, ‘Why not stay for a scratch supper?’ The Gay Mother gave me two duck legs. I’ve been with her this week.

It looked a bit bleak.

We were joined, after a drama, by Tancredo Viamare, Bruce MacBain’s partner, who’d been painting one of his bathroom’s white. ‘What does that mean – white?’ Bruce MacBain quizzed.

Tancredo wasn’t really able to explain. It seemed he referred to Brilliant White.

But somehow Poor Little Rich Gays conjured bounty out of a barren store cupboard. We ended up with:

Raddicchio grilled, with balsamic

Cherry tomato, basil and mozzarella

Iberian acorn-fed ham

Olives

Pecorino

Spagetti with duck leg and peas

The Gay Mother’s blackcurrant puree

In the middle of it all, the Gay Mother herself rang up. ‘What’s fromage frais?’ she said.

Well, that’s where it all began. More later.

The Gay Mother’s currant situation you wouldn’t believe.

Thursday 22^nd July 2010

It sounds unlikely but Poor Little Rich Gays support an orphanage deep in the Bulgarian mountains.

Have you ever been to Bulgaria?

Prada completely absent. In fact, it’s frightful, unless you like wildflowers and a picturesque rural scene arrested at about 1905 in English terms. The honey’s got a pine-cone in it.

Years ago, Miles Kent, great friend of my oldest friend, Anthony Mottram (with whom I’m not currently on speakers owing to classic complexity of Poor Little Rich Gay relationships and his love of the young) was walking in Bulgaria. He  came across the children’s home at Shiroka Luka, where orphan children (or more often unwanted) were living in primitive conditions, with 10 pence a day for food, and no toys, art materials or entertainment of any kind.  He founded a charity. A few hundred pounds could make a huge difference.  He raised much more than that.

But we go beyond writing cheques or drawing up in the Bentley at a Charity Gala. No, we actually go there. Every summer Anthony Mottram’s ‘consulting’ business, which is found all over the East and Central of Europe, sponsors a three-week Drama Festival, run by a group of professional actors and a director from Sofia. This culminates in a loose kind of ‘performance’, based on a theme, which last year was India, with dancing, music, story-telling and a tremendous finale which makes all the Poor Little Rich Gays cry.

Last year, as you may remember, I went with Robert Nevil. This year, owing to still being kept in Abu Graiub by Anthony Mottram, I went to Virgil Grayson’s villa near St Tropez instead and RN set forth with his miniature Indian doctor friend, Arjan Bose.

Oh, they did suffer. Flies, flies, flies! All the cows are housed under the living quarters in the village, you see! Belting wet heat, terrible stomach upsets. Lovely traditional Bulgarian Bagpipes starting up without warning.

And the food, usually too bad in Bulgaria, has careered downhill into Hell. See graphs below. Mottram harangued a restaurant owner after a ghastly pink plastic raw chicken lunch. ‘What about organic?’ he went.  ‘Locally sourced?’ ‘What about applying heat of some intensity ?’ One of his employees was reluctantly translating.

This does sound like Mottram. What he hasn’t done to flush out the Communist residue from the East and Central of Europe.  Poor Little Rich Gays like something or someone to look after, improve, help and tend. It might be a country, or a plant, or a person, often young.

As for the orphans’ show, after rehearsals, fleas were seen leaping out of their just worn costumes.

Numbers are down. Many have been sold into adoption by untrained social workers; others were snatched from rehearsals into fostering. This is progress. But what about the perf?  Massed ranks needed to gain full impact. Besides the orphans love the drama festival. They all cry when it’s over.

Anthony Mottram, Robert Nevil and Arjan Bose led a delegation to persuade the local mayors that the orphanage is essential – can you imagine? Three Poor Little Rich Gays in outfits, with accessories!

In the end, the show came off with a full compliment. Sensational Inca finale – it was a Mexican theme this year. Some of the children are star performers, others sub-zero hopeless but all wild to go on and display, such is the brilliance of their teachers.

Let it not be forgotten that Anthony Mottram’s Poor Little Rich Gay money allowed a fully-costumed drama given by orphans in Bulgaria’s wilds.

Sinister Pink Delicacy Served on Traditional Bulgarian Ware

Bulgarian Hotel Decor

Tuesday 20^th July 2010

I completely forgot – how could I? – that Rufus Pitman, blissfully married with  separate residences and cities and countries to Raj Zoroaster, novel forthcoming about bears (it’s a type of gay), was equipped with a black truncheon, that could have been thought a sex toy, at Lord Arrowby’s party – actually it was a fan. But I feared arrest or assault or both when it was first flourished near my person.

Her Late Majesty Dame Edith Evans demonstrated fan work once on TV. The closed fan can be an instrument of reprimand, then commandingly opened without warning, then hidden behind with flirtatious effect or used to mark termination.

Poor Little Rich Gays, as we know from the case of  the Smallmeal/Limpneys, are keen on sudden termination. Often it’s a question of getting in first.  But the true Poor Little Rich Gay usually regrets it after two or three years. Anthony Mottram, ‘consultant’, of Prague, with whom I’ve been bickering away for the last forty years,  informs me that our friendship has been ‘suspended’ since January.

‘Suspended’ by whom, I may ask? The head of HR? That’s ‘human resources’.

But between 1981 and 1986, for reasons now unknown, it was terminated.

Nevertheless, let’s all have party fans when London resumes in September.

The big news is, after I left, there was a stripper at Lord Arrowby’s party. And it wasn’t a man. Sudden lady in a mac, mac off, completely bare, nothing on.

I know it’s a cliché but yes, the men gays were traumatised. Shortly afterwards, Lord Arrowby called the carriages.

Sunday 18th July 2010

Why is it, after years and years of cutting off bits of string from a ball to tie up plants in the garden (Poor Little Rich Gays are often gardeners. Plants are something to look after and they don’t answer back – up to a point), I’m still making a wild stab at guessing the length required? Why not more methodical? Why no ruler?

Crap mentality – that’s why.

Saturday 17^th July 2010

Cascades of champagne, staff, canapés surging every 30 seconds. Good Lord, readers, I expect you’re thinking: ‘Not again.’

There is a sameness to Poor Little Rich Gay life, it is true. But we have struggled so hard to lash our bark in the howling storm to those bollard things on the quay.

Lord Arrowby’s parties are certainly well out of recession, the student-style brie-and-baguette table now a tiny speck on the horizon.

But His Lordship, as we know, Mr Darcy-ish, some kind of power-behind-the-throne in power’s highest corridors (although these could be, now I think of it, the bedroom corridors), but nevertheless highly bizarre and supremely Poor Little Rich Gay, as well as my part-time love interest, when I remember, is not given to extravagance. Although we must remember that unextravagance is costly. You have to be at a certain level before you can afford to avoid it. But he has, like Ralph Kitto, put a great deal into his art collection.

He was a sublime honey-gold hue for his party which he insisted was natural, his blue eyes never bluer or more bewitching.

I think I won’t carry on like this. It’ll go to his head

So:

The guests:

World-famous Poor Little Rich Gays, but Reggie Cresswell, the Ghanaian ceramicist, unable to attend owing to the latest monumental ceramic still being in and out the kiln

Boxers, kick and normal

DJs

Dancers who used to run frock shops

Frock shoppists who used to be dancers

Daphne Flowerbender, who has a butler and smokes through the courses

Bond Street Gallerists

Building Society Managers

Mobile Phone Shop workers

Male models

Literary agents

Members of the cycling club

People with children

Afghan community workers

Vicars

The Conversation:

Harry Rollo, the impresario and performance artist: ‘I do resent sleeping. It means I’m not getting on with anything.’

Rufus Pitman, novelist and critic: ‘New direction in perfume: “Sycamore” by Chanel, only available from Selfridges, £190 a bottle.’

Lollo Gesù to his friend, Cesár Salas: ‘What’s all this?’ – pulling on loose fabric around crotch of Cèsar’s trousers – ‘There’s nothing there.’ ‘What do you suggest?’ says Cèsar. ‘A sock!’ says Lollo. Cesár much charming. In fact we’re already friends on Facebook where you can see him in underwear and silver straps.

Relationships a big theme:  Gay divorce – expense of. Relationships, long term but seasonal, problems of.  Then, Guy Bostock, who had his ex-boyfriend moved back in, owing to homelessness it turns out, and living at the other end of his flat. That was last year. Now Guy has got even bigger pecs, borne with  irony, and has met a big muscular go-cart racer who is being impossible. It really is too much. We were all furious on his behalf but he was superbly prancing and glancing in the Poor Little Rich Gay manner about it all.

The Frockage:

Lord Arrowby was in a white-and-blue flowered lawn shirt and the new mid-calf length summer slacks – this was weeks of planning, as we know.

Two people were showing the new oatmeal canvas lace-ups with sateen toe-caps, Lord Arrowby one of them.

The ivory and white summer look, classic, was excellently displayed, especially by Cesàr Salas whose silhouette was fantastic – coat-hanger shoulders, tiny waist.

By the way, someone apparently connected with fashion was asked what trousers are doing: ‘Don’t worry. Wear what you like,’ this person said.

Well, that’s wrong. We want to wear what’s new, however unsuitable. Frockage is the fight against death.

So wear all of the above, dear readers, even if it kills you.

Finally:

I said to Lord Arrowby: ‘Let’s marry soon.’

‘Oh, that again.’

‘Well, how about a mini-break?’

‘All right. But I insist on separate bathrooms.’

Friday 16th July 2010

Lord Arrowby’s party – highlight of the season. Some sunshine at last so we shall be know the glamour of his huge terrace over-looking the seat of government.

With this wind, I’ve had to be editing my garden the entire time. Not a plant now not tied up.

But Poor Little Rich Gays must have something to look after – or someone.

I’m beginning to wonder. Staff!  I can’t go on running a wild back garden where every plant has to be manoeuvred with string into its wild position plus two other pot gardens without assistance.

I’ll have to get staff.

But I was rewarded. All day lopping and clearing and staking and finally – satisfaction. Garden really not too bad. I achieved a little glimpsing moment of pleasure that made all the difference.

Although, changing for Lord Arrowby’s party, I found my neck stained with pollen from a lily. Used up nearly £15 worth of Keihl’s Microdermabrasion getting it off.

I’m in a grey silk and cotton shirt by Paolo Pecora, first outing, straight from The Library carrier bag . It is a mousseline, crushed but fighting back. Otherwise it’s those Prada black nylon slacks I can just get into but can’t sit down in and Prada patent bootees.

I’m flying – bye!

Thursday 15th July 2010

Today is the birthday of Matt Driver, husband of Laura Malcolm, hononary Poor Little Rich Gay owing to unusual behaviour.

Over at the Multis, one of the tenants (they’ve got a property empire as part of their empire and borrowed so much from Coutts Bank they were invited to lunch) has had the nerve to complain about the collapse of his wardrobe rail.  Plainly too many clothes. Solution: slash tenant frockage down to minimum or nothing.

Readers will also be sorry to hear that the Photographer Multi has cut his chin. He was toppled by his own sheer marble flooring,  which also goes up the walls as a matter of fact, but went to the public Causality Department and was thrilled with it.

Meanwhile some of the most famous Poor Little Rich Gays in the world are fuelling and pre-frocking for Lord Arrowby’s party tomorrow. There’s been tremendous tweaking and selection-panel work re: guests. Lord A’s parties are virtually impossible to get into.  They’re like a giant flower arrangement that’s all got to balance and match. This time he’s deploying gallerists and frock shop managers – I’m not sure which are the flowers and which the greenery. Lord A has also been hugely preoccupied with his own outfit for the party, as we know. There’s been talk of him getting extra discounts at Liberty’s. Can’t wait to see the result.

I’ve  had word from Bulgaria where Robert Nevil and Arjan Bose are visiting the orphans with Anthony Mottram. Conditions are appalling apparently.

More later.

Wednesday 14^th July 2010

I’ve been gardening. I feel a gardening issue coming on. Poor Little Rich Gays love to garden (if they don’t have it done). Plants are like pets. They need looking after.

We love to have someone or something to look after.

But I must tell you about Ralph Kitto’s 50^th Birthday at Cap Ferrat. It was nearly three weeks ago. I’d covered the pre-party half way down a cliff on the Friday night, you may remember. Then the Multis disappeared and I was derailed. And the Blond Multi turned up in Australia – we still don’t know why, do we?

Those of you unaccustomed to banking circles would have been surprised at the simplicity and freshness of the 50th Birthday arrangements. You’ve got the million-euro-a-square-inch Cap Ferrat background of course, but beyond that it could not have been less pretentious – a long, long table in the garden of a borrowed villa set for eighty, an excellent dinner provided by a local restaurant, no elaborate glassware or napery. For some reason, I was reminded of a Monet painting. It was magical in the enclosed garden in the gloaming.

Ralph has his outstanding collection of contemporary art, which was visited by the Friends of the Tate Gallery, but otherwise it’s a Mini, one bathroom, no Prada and no restaurants. I once said to him: ‘Let’s go to a restaurant.’ ‘Not on your life,’ he said.

He was in a jewelled Indian coat especially made, dispensing champagne. He has a kind face and sees everything. All his friends are ferociously loyal. He was introducing them to each other with lavish compliments. He adores those who prance and leap and are nonsensical but he’s an eye for the vulnerable as well. Like other Poor Little Rich Gays, he loves to have people to look after.

I sat with some ladies who said the toilets on the Great Wall of China were unspeakable. One of them revealed the contents of her hangbag – slippers and a room spray. Always carried. We were very friendly and cheerful considering we didn’t know each other – this was all Ralph’s doing somehow. Further up the table was the hospital building partner of the flower arranger  – we were at the same modest 3 star down the road. He was saying  that he’d studied the fire escape plan in his room at the hotel and they’d definitely got the biggest bathroom.

Sol Weideinwar, the media multi, known to me also through Laura Malcolm, brushed by with his younger partner, Carlos de Costos Sanchez, as we all became unseated at the end of the dinner. Sol had been turned by the sun into almost a new racial type. He and Carlos dripped sex appeal and gym as always, in equal proportion, despite the age difference. But they had not had sex that day, Sol informed me. Too busy.  No word of how Carlos’ quest for work progresses. Things are so difficult for young people at the moment. But at least he will not starve with Sol to care for him. .

Then  there were the rare Norse mini-gods. Do you remember them? Gathered by Ralph from a beach on the Côte in a previous year, now fresh from Oslo. Both about 25, blond, whippy and lovely, one, the Oslo buyer for Ralph Lauren, in the slimmest of frockage, white shirt and slender pale trousers. ‘Very good highlights,’ I heard someone murmur. He also appeared to be wearing make-up and looked ravishingly fresh and young and artificial all at once, even when, after much knocking back, he toppled from his chair to the ground.

What it is to be young!

The rest of us drifted away contentedly at an agreeable hour for the older gay.

Ralph Kitto's Jewelled Indian Coat for his 50th Birthday at Cap Ferrat

Ralph Kitto's Present Hoard. I Gave Two Plants but He has No Garden

A Jewel Worn by a Guest at Ralph Kitto's 50th Birthday Party

Monday 12th July 2010

The skies over Europe are teeming with Poor Little Rich Gays this morning. Robert Nevil, accompanied by the exquisite  miniature Indian doctor, Arjan Bose, who saw another side of life during a spell doctoring  in the clap clinic, boarded for Bulgaria from London at 11. They are visiting the Orphans – do you remember them from last year? Anthony Mottram’s ‘consulting’ business sponsors the Drama Festival for the Orphans. I am not included in the party, being kept by Mottram in Abu Graiub.

The whole Bulgarian adventure  is very extreme for Poor Little Rich Gays.

I mount the air at Toulon for London at 3. I don’t think my wings will brush with the Sofia-bound aircraft though. I must take up the reins again. I know I’ve said it before but always, returning to the capital and my home, I recall the words of her Late Majesty Queen Mary upon departing Badminton at the end of the War, where she had been secluded for the duration from bombs: ‘ Here I have been anything to anyone. Now I shall have to go back to London and begin being Queen Mary all over again.’ There is much to be done. This brief interlude in the South of France has thrown up one or two difficulties with my summer wardrobe. I’ve gone right off my Balenciaga white slacks. I’ll have to see if I can claw up a late sales bargain.

But oh I have been refreshed and restored by four days in Virgil Grayson’s miraculous sea-side house.