Friday 3rd February 2017

The year is now rattling at full speed after the minute lull at the beginning of the month. Brexit the Musical, about a pub in Petite Venise I’ve already mentioned, followed the next day by a private family dinner, then London Art Fair (3 bump-intos, one with a private jet and one, Matt Driver, with earnings at the greater end) , then Anthony Mottram last minute at Bocca di Lupo on the Sunday, then the Finborough Theatre on the Monday, a money lunch at Ivy Market Grill on the Tuesday, with a quiet dinner in the evening for 5 (I did Ottolenghi’s chicken in arak with clementines, except it was Seville oranges, vermouth and rosemary not thyme)… Thursday was a Cocktail Party to launch the Aids Ark Dinner for One – Genevieve Suzy was one of two actual women present. Saturday to Cromer for Lady Bracknell’s Confinement (it’s a play). Monday was La La Land. Wednesday I lunched with my prints and framing department and Thursday (yesterday) was a huge lunch for contributors to Dainty Lady TV. I wore my new Topman frock coat in a controversial dirty oatmeal shade. It turned out that our whippy intern, who doubles as our underground link to the Royal Family, had on the trouser part of the ensemble – all reduced online, you see. We were graphed clamped together, making a strange zig-zag matching set. Next to me was a National greatness also seen on TV sitting in a armchair with leafy print watching TV with husband crouched beside. At once she announced to me that she had reason not to be on speakers with household name sitting next to her on the other side, now retired to organ-playing, and his torch of satire handed on to Laura Malcolm’s friend, Piggy – but despite no speaks was totally on speaks with the former head of satire, indeed it was clear that she would forge steadily on forever. She explained how she had telephoned the Express years ago  and not been put through to the editor of the colour section. So she phoned back later, giving the same surname as that editor with a different first name. Was put straight through and got a gig criticising her husband (he also to criticise her, but less so presumably) which lasted for years at £450 a go.

Monday is to be Jackie. I have to say I’m hysterical. Boucle, 3/4 length sleeves and pill-box hats. I’m just chronic with excitement.

But going back to Anthony Mottram showing up last minute a few weeks ago on a Sunday. We took Bocco di Lupo but it’s not what it was. The cime di rapa a bit soggy. How we talked! Talked and talked. It’s been going on since 1970, when we were introduced at the housemaster’s introductory tea-party and I fell off the chair with daintiness so Anthony Mottram has put it about ever since. Yap, yap, yap without ceasing from that date, for 47 years, with interludes of no speaks. Some people fascinate, others do not. What a rollercoaster of divine nonsense and radiant truth. Anthony Mottram maintains I have compulsive obsessive disorder, but he is much pre-occupied with the home and goes around his apartment in Prague of museum proportions touching up the paint work himself. The tin of paint he uses was specially prepared for him by the architect. His old cleaner would not improve and the new one is a smasher. In Prague the cleaners come every day. She smashed a £450 plate and threw away the remains. For Christmas she gave a Ukrainian drinks dispenser.

My problem is a pottery jug. My belief is it was given by the Gay Grandmother as a prop for my appearance in the school Nativity Play. I think I was a shepherd, so why a jug? All the same, the item does have a whiff of ancient Palestine, it’s true. For years, it’s been cluttering up my kitchen work top behind the toaster, where nothing much goes on. My cupboards are crammed, you see.  In January I moved it to another part of the work surface which might be termed a pre-death area. ‘Throw it away,’ Anthony Mottram said. ‘Don’t cling to the past.’ The craft and pottery path is not one I’ve gone down in my home, unlike Robert Nevil and Sebastian Archer. . I’m not even keeping that path for another day – as in that poem by Robert Frost. Besides this jug is undistinguished even as pottery. But I fear it will linger, to be disposed of by others after my day.

Jug: Not Much Even as Pottery but with an Undoubted Whiff of Ancient Palestine

Sunday 29th January 2017

Today is the Gay Father’s old birthday. He would have been 96.

Val’s been on the phone and in person in January. He seems to be taking dry January quite seriously. We picked over pip bags for marmalade making. ‘Mine’s of silk organza,’ Val proclaimed. ‘I haven’t got butter muslin in stock.’  Otherwise we’ve been challenged by fabric stiffener as Val re-makes some bespoke conical hanging lampshades I have from the 80s. Val’s stiffener is antique and toxic. You need to be in the wastes of Antartica if you’re not to be gassed by its fumes. So we tried Amazon. It’s hard to find out about the products except from the on-line comments; in this case the online fabric-stiffening community is much pre-occupied with stiffening crochet, in particular crochet-ed people who are then stuck on to some monumental piece of crochet presumably to create a heroic scene. Perhaps Reggie Cresswell, the renowned Ghanaian ceramicist, could go down the crochet path if ceramic ever gets too much.

Anyway, the long and short is, we ordered some fabric stiffener and it works a treat. It looks as if the lampshades will be re-made but Val is currently diverted by his bathroom floor. He wanted to go to B and Q.

His silk organza pip bag for marmalade making was no good – too fine.

So I took Val to B and Q. We were actually served by a charming man (although resembling Jimmy Saville as to wig) who found all the rare things Val wanted while I pushed the trolley. In the car park was an abandoned trolley. I was reminded of the famous scene in the car park of Leclerq Paris (it’s a French supermarket) when Laura Malcolm was challenged over her trolley conduct by a Parisian zero-calorie Greatness: ‘Et vos chariot?’ the starved woman shrieked, rattling the contraption as it stood not returned to the chariot pen. Of course Laura fired back in full French with subjunctives and everything: ‘The attendants here collect them. It’s a valet service. Did you not know?’

The great thing is that the French for supermarket trolley is ‘chariot’.

Val’s only regret was that, owing to the lay-out of roads, we didn’t get the beauty of a full circulation of the Chiswick roundabout on leaving B and Q.

Val’s now finished re-laying his bathroom floor. It’s good enough for Fred and Ginger to have tapped their way across, he says. His spirits are high. ‘Thank you so much for taking part in that Superstore dash,’ he writes. ‘Your handling of the chariot put me very much in mind of dear old Charlton Heston in Ben Hur….the Coliseum never saw anything like it!’

One of the Conical Shades that Val is Re-Making, Using the Original Frames

The Last of the Famous Christmas Quenelle Mixture Served as Mousse by Val

Val’s Knitting: This is not the Norwayan Alpine Style but Every Stitch is Different

Laura Malcolm Paid a Family Visit to the Wight’s Isle

Thursday 26th January 2017

Last Wednesday Eddie Sedgwick had an opening to mark the 1st Anniversary of David Bowie’s death. Icons from the era were present  (Miss Eve Ermine herself) as well as new icons carrying on with the era, namely a tiny ghostly waif, aged 15, who stars in the West End show, Lazarus. As you know, I’m not familiar. Coming in late, someone was playing David Bowie music on an electric piano. It sounded like extruded Rachmaninov. Then a terrifying woman sang that song we’ve all heard of about ‘Ground Control to Major Tom…’ Well… comprehension isn’t exactly the point, I suppose. It’s ‘spaced out’ into a free-wheeling haze. But we mustn’t be superior. In the 70s this was completely new for those starting out as Gay. Ronnie Ronnie (mysteriously not present) set out from Reading circa 1972 with that figure who now does all the shop windows in New York. Their aim was re-invention. They weren’t going to be themselves but whoever they wanted to be.  In a whirl of David Bowie they boarded at Reading station for the Blitz Club. They dared not to have jobs and to try out different looks. Heady days. Ronnie Ronnie starred at Blitz Club with Miss Eve Ermine. Marilyn was there and Eddie too. The world had never seen people like them before. They were completely new and free.

I dined exclusively with Eddie afterwards in a fish and chip shop. Robert Nevil had to go home. We picked over the PV. A lot of people’s approach was, ‘What do you do?’ – perhaps because they’re getting older and crosser and David Bowie is no longer transmitting as well as he once did. ‘Ah Dainty Lady TV!’ one such said. ‘You do a lot of caring.’ I couldn’t think what she was talking about. It turned out this same woman had plagued Eddie all the evening that she’d got a present for him. Finally she produced it: a semi-used bag of cough sweets. Set yourself up in an art gallery and anyone can get in! Eddie said that Lionel Moore is astonishing although really only 95, not 96 as he announces when you answer his telephone calls. Recently, after one such call to Phoebe Nicholls, after many digressions, he accepted her invitation to supper at her new home. ‘But where is it?’ his assistant inquired when at last he replaced the receiver. A minor detail. He had no idea. His driver only does theatre people so presumably journeys often have a similar lack of destination. His car found its way to the House of Commons, though, where Eddie’s consort, the MP for Whirly and Lorraine (Labour), was to give a prestigious talk about Clement Attlee, in the Speaker’s House. At the end Imperial Betty Boothroyd rose from the back row and advanced to the front to announce she couldn’t stay long. Frankie-Doreen May once had audience with her re: a possible autobiog and was mesmerised by her swimming costume hanging on the back of the door: it was so stiff with boning as if she’d hung her swimming body there, to be resumed later.

Eddie Sedgwick’s Art Tribute to David Bowie: Now Dreadfully Dead But Was He Ever There in the First Place? So Liberated from Identity

David Bowie: Eddie Sedgwick’s Art.

David Bowie: Final Liberation: Death. Never More Free

Eddie Sedgwick on PV Night for His David Bowie Dead Show

Sunday 21st January 2017

One January maybe ten years ago I wasn’t required the entire month and had all that time to make marmalade. Laura Malcolm always used to refuse to go anywhere in January. These days, as the shadow of the valley of Death deepens, activity is more frantic than ever. Barely two blank days after New Year and the last minutes start pouring in and pouring out: Angus Willis and Fergus Strachan dined and had the first known January Christmas dinner (as already mentioned); Prince Dmitri dined and did his best to be philosophical. I took Brexit the Musical above a pub in Little Venice, I took Rosenkavalier with Renee (also as explained before: Reggie Cresswell can’t bear Rosenkavalier. He is currently in India with Rufus Pitman and Raj Zoraster who grows more frisky and Tigger-like by the day. Rufus has abandoned the German Alpine look for a look derived from the Indian Alps i.e huge shawl of the finest quality). Eddie Sedgwick had an opening; I took London Art Fair. I dined quietly with rellies in Pimlico. Anthony Mottram materialised from Prague and we lunched at Bocca di Lupo. Serena Davenport had her 60th birthday party at a stately home hotel. I sat next to Roxanne General at the dinner who condemned Topman when I said I was wearing Topman and said she’d never missed her sit-ups every day for the last 25 years. She runs many schools and gets everything at Bicester Village. Her gown was Matthew Williamson, down to £85 from £880. On my other side was Hester Fuchs who is very keen on birthing and therapies. She urged me to eat more fat. It’s got marvellous properties, she said. But I was brought up with fat being evil and can’t change now. We played a tremendous gush-free ‘This is Your Life’ for Serena which was much more touching than a lot of gush would have been. Roxanne said she hadn’t prepared her contribution but rose and was superb.

Of course, in the background all the household work and work on clothes has been going on (I wouldn’t say seamlessly) which make possible the outward functions. I’m on the fourth batch of marmalade and the January sales targets are almost all met. These days, with my wardrobe stretching as far as the eye can see with less expensive items, it’s almost impossible to grasp what is needed to lift it. Serena, at her 60th birthday, said she’d been selling off items on eBay for the last 3 years. A light Spring coat, shower-proof but not a mac, not rough-looking as so much is nowadays, but good enough to be worn at funerals, is the most glaring gap. Also possibly everyday bootees and a fine knit from APC in a mysterious blue like the one by APC I tried on in Harrods but it was too small. Always just out of reach, the knits and loveliness one craves. Finally (is it finally?) the home itself – we’ve almost completed the programme of polishing and it really does look as if a restorer for the dining table will be forthcoming. I’ve made a decision re: that bookcase.

Lionel Moore phoned up at 96 while I was exercising. ‘I’m 96,’ he bellowed. He’s having a party to celebrate his late partner, Eric Vaughan at Wilton’s Music Hall. Lady Plowright … Phoebe Nichols. It will be huge. Lionel appeared v. excited about the whole thing. I was explaining to Laura Malcolm about the time Lionel saw a tall woman at a party in New York who looked familiar. It wasn’t until Edna O’Brien said in her Irish way, ‘Dew knoo Mussis Onassis?’ that he realised it was Mrs Onassis or Mrs Kennedy to use her other name. Another time President Reagan explained to Lionel the wisdom he had imparted to one of those v. distinguished Oxbridge-educated PMs from the Caribbean. ‘If your people could only save up to get a tractor – maybe one for each family – then they could plough the land and grow stuff and it would be great.’

Which brings me onto the present President. Harry Rollo and Mercury Mr Kitten have been out protesting on the streets of Los Angeles. I think their banner must have been self-made: it said, ‘Keep your tiny hands off MOTHER EARTH’. Marvellous. But what is to be done? ‘President’ Trump and his wife, Malaria, are the unacceptable face of the Poor Little Rich Gays.

My New Bag by Visconti Arrived. V. Pleased with it. It is Stiffer than Old One and Sits Upright Like the Queen’s, Giving Feeling of Having Life of its Own. Put Old One on the Street: It was Snatched up by Furious Snatching Mother and Daughter Team who Barely Paused Before Taking Possession and Parading Forth with my old Bag in Glory

Wednesday 18th January 2017

Really important news is Val’s Christmas menu. Val made quenelles for Christmas. Not rabbit, though, but salmon. Rabbit quenelles were the death of an awful woman in the spectacular opening of Molly Keane’s Good Behaviour which is a novel. Val’s were salmon. Who has now heard of a quenelle, let alone made one? Suffice it to say, they’re an incredibly detailed, demanding French thing. The mixture has to be just the right consistency for the poaching, or they’ll fall apart. You’re left with a shiny, pale ‘shape’. Imagine a milk jelly turned out. The appearance must be perfect. Often they are made of pike. But taste is elusive to say the least. They are coated in a matching pale cream and egg sauce for serving.

It is reported that Laura Malcolm and a party watched ‘The Sound of Music’ over Christmas. ‘Are they a JAM family?’ Laura inquired, meaning ‘only just managing.’ It’s true there’s a lack of staff and food in the villa, although a great deal of singing and parading. Her friend, the Queen Mother, was distressed by apparent finger marks  around the door handles in the bedroom scene. This is when she sings ‘A few of my favourite things..’ and gets the idea to make costumes for the children out of the old curtains. ‘Couldn’t someone have Vim-ed?’ the Queen Mother wailed.

I asked the Gay Mother what her Christmas present was from Cousin Ruby. ‘It’s a spa,’ she said – which didn’t seem very likely. But I discovered later she was reading from the side of the box. A ‘spa’ means shower gel and that kind of thing in a collection. So now you know. The Gay Mother also said that Hickey is her favourite Miss Marple.

On my return to London I was asked to a buffet by Kernow Hellizon. I thought the large art work in the drawing room looked familiar. Perhaps it was by Bryan Organ who painted Prince Charles in an organic fashion. But no. It was a world-class painter one of whose works was destroyed at dead of night in a gruesome ritual by some of the highest ladies in the land, including the Queen Mother. On another wall was a drawing of Lord Goodman. I saw him once in person at a concert at St Johns’ Smith Square. This was in the 70s. Some searing ladies asked Anthony Mottram and myself what we were doing there since it was an evening dress gala we’d accidentally crashed not in evening dress. We gave them hell, even in those days.

Among the other guests was a world-class philosopher so people were begging for answers which were not forthcoming. One had already achieved a solution  though which is choral evensong.  I thoroughly agree. I had a long talk about Twirly Godfrey with one of the other critics. This was a rare evening.

Sunday 15th January 2017

I asked Joshua Baring for steerage on bags. He said, ‘I don’t like them.’ Devastating. But where do you put your things? I won’t spend £600 on a bag even though it wouldn’t kill my economy for the time being. I could buy several, even a Balenciaga for £1500. For years I’ve been carrying a Visconti. I got it at the Designer Warehouse Sale for £80. I find I can replace it online for even less. I like the Visconti the best but am wracked with guilt it’s not expensive enough. I ought to spend more but not £1200 or even £600 on something that’s just a moderately fancified computer bag. Yesterday I saw a nice bag in John Lewis. But it had John Lewis written inside it. I couldn’t. I also lunched there because it was raining. Brexit-type Salade Nicoise tasting of nothing. Then I remembered John Lewis was Remain.

I’ve ordered a new Visconti as a stop-gap until such time as my Official Car can gain Bicester Designer Village or the Mulberry Factory Shop – if it still exists. Such places are perfect for leather goods like belts and bags. Nobody will ever know.

I’ve been living quietly but ill. I wonder how long I’ve got since everybody else has been taken. How much time is there left to wear fashion and elaborate the home? Last week, Dainty Lady TV ordered a 3 hour piece to camera on Her: great worry re: her cold. Thank God she emerged for Church last week. Genevieve Suzy said, ‘But what about her blinky blanky? Why was she wrapped up in the car?’ ‘She always has a blinky, even in summer,’ I was able to comfort.

Going backwards, I had two intensely private dinners this week, so quiet you could barely hear them. I served the first January Christmas dinner known to the human race. The vacuum-packed chestnuts had to be used by August. Wednesday was Rosenkavalier with Renee Fleming. Absolute heaven. Renee not declining at all but greater with age even though not what she was.  I wore my new lightly draped coat in a rust shade by Sandro and the tiny pale grey Topman suit collected from Jeeves of Belgravia immediately before the performance. Fabien-Boris fermented rebellion in the Rich Ladies Mainly-White-Tiny-Tables-Zero-Calorie Dining Pen over who was going to get the tip.

My Visconti: But It is Expensive Enough?

John Lewis Brexit Salade Nicoise. Flavour Reduced to a Minimum

Sunday 25th December 2016

From Her downwards, everybody is ill, including the Gay Mother who is finally able to enjoy a little smoked salmon and took two miniature mince pies from Fortnums (gift of Anthony Mottram of Prague) at lunch. At least she’s comfortable by the fire surrounded by antiques.

Fur has been huge for me this Christmas. I’ve never before understood how important fur is for celebration in winter. The second thing has been ‘How Beautiful are the Feet’ by Handel, which I never heard in The Messiah before although it must always have been there.

But to the Baby Jesus. I note he is never ascribed any characteristics. Even though new-born, most babies are at once said to be ‘calm’ or ‘bad-tempered’ or ‘incredibly ugly.’ But the Baby Jesus is just a blank of perfection. Nothing has actually happened. He’s had the big achievement of getting born and lies there is the auto-lit manger. Time is suspended – in the Christmas card version with a poor little robin in the snowy wastes and various people v. snug indoors, also doing nothing, usually out of sight.

So Christmas has at its heart this emptiness, which it takes some time to recover from.

May you all be blessed at Christmas when you need it most. A very Happy Christmas to you all.

Saturday 24th December 2016

So The Red Shoes at the Sadlers Wells. Ballet. Why don’t they talk? It would make more sense. In the front row, Darcy Bussell (hideous halter-neck trouser arrangement), next to her Tom Daley (mascara and eye-liner) and his man ( unreal hair). Richard E Grant blocked my view and Susannah Reid was sitting in my seat: ‘Would you mind swapping?’ She wanted to stay with some Korean make-up artists whom she thought were fashion-designers. Jenufa Saunders was also robed and in the sanctuary – showed an extraordinary grasp of the row number when some people got lost.

Afterwards to Ed Jasper, the bed-linen expert, and Roland Mainflower’s. A classic post-theatre sandwich melange is now served in the drawing room, instead of a groaning buffet in the dining room as in previous years. The young barrister who belongs in the world of Joshua Baring and Patrick Lockyer but also whirls in this and once led me through a field at dead of night, possibly to meet my end, had a different blond escort this year with the same recently-arrived-from-outer-space look. He was called Coniston and had to rush back to write an essay for a fellow student on a paying basis. In the vestibule Ed was shrieking at Coniston re: that barrister:  ‘You know he’s evil. Keep away from him.’

Ralph Kitto indeed sat me next to him at his supper on the Friday. Although in between was someone who turned out to have had a baby. I couldn’t believe it. Some Gays had had a baby. They’ve gone through the same channels as Elton apparently who had been immensely helpful. The egg and the surrogate mother all supplied from America at vast expense. The Gays offered a cocktail of their emissions, it would seem, so the father could be either of them. Well, it takes some getting used to. He was awfully thrilled with the baby, this guest, and talked of little else. I slipped down to where Landsdowne Reindorp was sitting (yes, they were there) and said, ‘I’m at the baby end.’ A banker was from America and seemed to be suffering from culture shock. ‘I’m in finance,’ he said. ‘That’s money, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘How did you meet Ralph? Was it in the street?’ Didn’t go down well. He was forced back into his own anecdotage. His private plane, landing at St Barts, had overshot the runway and ended up arse over tit on the beach. Luckily it righted itself and didn’t explode. The event is shown on YouTube.

Saturday was double functions as was Sunday. Why do we function? ‘What would be the alternative? Philip Largs said he could either spend the whole evening canted over some bitch who’d only read Which? or in the company of the moon like an air-sharpened blade. Bruce MacBain and I gained Charlie Armitage and Fabien-Boris Claude’s. I couldn’t stay long. Their spread was fantastic. A lady said menswear was often too big. She was in TV. I was thrilled because of the worry about my Paul Smith red velvet jacket being too small. It was bought in a sale at huge reduction. So then on to Arabella von Gardendoor’s. Different personnel this year: no sign of the anti-Islam Iranian contingent, but her staff were in Ukrainian National Costume. A former MP had advised the Queen who was most responsive.

Burna O’Quigley’s gathering on the Sunday evening was a kind of climax. Raj Zoraster was in every kind of Christmas garb including cardboard Christmas Thunderbird specs. Burna gave me a Christmas bauble for the tree: it is a Crown. When it came to the voting game, there were frequent procedural irregularities which Raj seemed to be at the bottom of, even though he’s at the UN. In any case, he always won, whatever the proposition: such as most likely to wear a lady’s nightie to work or most likely to sustain gunshot wounds. I won most likely to win the 429th series of Celebrity Big Brother, when, Rufus Pitman explained, only mad people would be watching. Later Lord Arrowby arrived from the cathedral with Finn Magnus, the hot Boy Doc. It’s all right for some. But after I’d gone they all got locked out of Burna’s flat with only Finn inside, not letting them in, despite being a doctor.

Upon return from Cousin Paquita’s funeral on the Monday, I was a husk, barely functioning at functions from being over-functioned.  Straight from the station to Genevieve Suzy’s Dainty Lady TV  lunch at Joe Allen’s. The design department were on Grinder, but not grinding with the gentleman in a fur coat who’d been dining with another gentleman at a nearby table. Genevieve had been busy and the waitress had already become a subscriber to Dainty Lady TV. We had complimentary prosecco. Back home I had to go straight bed, before Harry Rollo and Mercury Mr Kitten’s event in the evening. Harry had only just seen the tribute to Her for her 90th. He’d been thrilled. Nobody has more feeling for Royalty, especially the old rare Royalties, than Harry. ‘Princess Marina!’ he shrieked.

Darcy Bussell at the Red Shoes Premiere

Tom Daley Regains after the Interval

Tom Daley Accompanied by Man

Harry Rollo Wins the Prize for Best Card this Year: Note the Connection with Historical Royalty

Tuesday 20th December 2016

The beat at first steady then rapid: at the Café, the Multis gave a wine tasting. Stulke Songingsen of Norway, resident in Sussex, presented her English wines and sparkling wines. There’s nothing she can’t do: a Norweyan jumper knitted on a single circular needle for her son, a company that is sold for millions and now English wines which have been much praised. There was a seating plan for the tasting. The Multis were with friends who turned out to be Young Tories. I was put with some other young people, also newly embraced by the Multis. One of them happened to know Marcus Cargill, England’s leading clock mender, and told me his dog, Colin, had died. So when I saw Marcus the following week, I said, ‘I’m so sorry that Colin has been took.’ ‘But he’s completely alive,’ Marcus said. The café really is an astonishing interior – jewel-like, lined with gold and a great forest of hanging lamps. It’s a dream of Byzantium.

The next thing was Landsdowne Reindorp’s 50th birthday at Berkeley Square. Rocky Rock had a superb jacket in green crushed velvet. Speeches were given from a balcony like Evita but it wasn’t necessary to save Argentina. Rocky said that Landsdowne was completely charming even after 26 years together. I was thankful to be briefed by  de Commendatores of Spain that the Spanish Royal Family are loved by the Spanish people because I’d heard that they are loathed. Ralph Kitto said that I was to sit next to him at his supper party the following Friday.

Then after only six hours sleep, I launched my Sunday lunch for the Laird and Lairdess, the Cruisings, Laura Malcolm, Matt Driver, Beamish O’Halloran of the Mail and Moira MacMatron. I wore some easy hostess lunch-giving slacks in light jersey and I was showered with two poinsettias as hostess gifts. Laura Malcolm, for some reason, had hysterics about the poinsettias – which I must remember to water, or they’ll wither away. The Lairdess wasn’t at all well, but the Laird took a lot of interest in my boiler and why it’s so noisy. He said it was electrical. Otherwise he cried and recalled his great reunion with the Lairdess after 25 years of separation. He recited an appropriate poem. ‘Pass the sick-bag,’ the Lairdess said. I think the Laird also sang his latest Flanders and Swan song, which is the Horn one, where the horn is found to be gawn. It was awfully good and in tune. The following day the Laird was due to give an entertainment at the Rotary Club. When they boarded the Lairdess gave me a glimpse of inside their Toerang vehicle and the glove compartment where her prosecco is kept. ‘Why’s it got a bandage around it?’ I asked. ‘It’s to stop it rattling,’ she said.

After that there was just an intimate gathering on the Monday, an important Carol Service on the Wednesday, Val over on the Thursday to finish off the curtains and the hard upholstery pole, followed by the Red Shoes that same evening, Ralph Kitto’s supper party on the Friday, Archie Armitage and Fabien-Boris Claude’s party and Arabella von Gardendoor’s party both on the Saturday, a family lunch on the Sunday followed by a small delirious function in Peckham in the evening, then the train to the Far West on the Monday morning, Cousin Paquita’s funeral at 2pm, then the baked meats, then a carol service at 7 followed by the sixth nibble party in a row, almost. Only Sunday lunch amounted to a square ‘meal’. My Uber bill reached unknown heights. Train back to London on Tuesday morning (one hour late). Straight to Joe Allen’s, where Genevieve Suzy was hosting a lunch with her mini-daschund under the table. On return to my residence I had to go straight to bed to gain the strength for Harry Rollo and Mercury Mr Kitten’s.

Val’s Important Curtain Work in the Back Bedroom

Hard Upholstery: Val One of the Few Practitioners of this Art Remaining: Fabric is ‘Deer Park’ by Lewis and Wood, Bought by Private Deal

Poinsettia Lifts My Drawing Room: A Hostess Gift for My Sunday Lunch

Plain Boiled Veg Not so Popular at My Sunday Lunch: Those Peas were Not the Best: Duchy Organic. Laura Malcolm Removed and Fed to her Children

Prosecco and Panetone Hostess Gift from the Laird and Lairdess

Monday 19th December 2016

The Messiah was given at San Paolo di Londra – what a foreign church it is inside – and Angus Willis was my surprise plus one. He favoured the Romanian Alpine look with corduroy breeches. We wondered about the mosaics added under the dome by Queen Victoria. The Messiah had some numbers I never seem to have heard before. Reggie Cresswell won’t go anywhere near Handel and I have been greatly bored by him. But this Messiah was enchanting, especially with the surprise additions. ‘How Beautiful are the Feet…’ was my stand-out fav and new to me. Truly shimmering and fairy-like (partly the echo in the cathedral) but bouncy and rooted in the earth with dance rhythm. The Boy Sopranos were great and one a massive greatness, penetrating voice dominating the vast cathedral from tiny 10-year-old frame.

The next day was Giles Ullerston and Frankie-Doreen’s dinner in the middle of which news of Aunt Vosges’s stroke came through. With Cousin Paquita dying on the Tuesday it was a bit much. Of course, one felt one’s own death looming, selfishly. But the dinner had to go on in its glory. I can’t remember my outfit but I didn’t hate it. I think I had the Limited Edition Zara Hussar jacket (yes, I’m sure I did because I remember doing the button story) with very common Topman white jeans. The Hon Augusta Chancellor said Anna Wintour was perfectly charming when known in person and it has been a great burden for her keeping the same hairstyle all these years. So my theory of her frozen greatness was quite exploded but I’m sticking to it. Then I went down the other end of the table and had delightful exchange with a lady from the Guardian about nightmare PR people. We agreed that sometimes you just have to say, ‘You can lavish all the private breakfasts you like, but coverage isn’t guaranteed.’ Then that lady’s husband said his mother had been awful and didn’t like anybody including him.

After that I was hospital visiting with Aunt Vosges, who was trumpeting loudly in the Ward about the Queen – tremendous Upper Class boom. All the other patients black ladies of similar grandeur. AV was on excellent form after iron and fresh blood put in. I was well set-up for Il Trovatore on the Wednesday. I wore my crepe frock coat and the pale grey Paul Smith slacks that had to be let out on the thighs. This was a bargain cut-price opera experience offered by the Royal Opera House. We had Rich Ladies Little Table in the Paul Hamlyn Hall. Not much time for gossip with the courses and opera to get through. Connor Cadeaux and Cesar Kaiser Cesar rarely leave the house these days, except to go to Australia. After Christmas they board for Italy where Connor is very keen on Cesar’s relations.

Oh and I quite forgot to mention, at the end of November, Harry Rollo gave a perf: it was the work of another, set to last for 70 minutes, but speeded up to 55. It was a wonder the performers didn’t die at the end from breathlessness, lunging, so many encounters with playing cards, switches of language etc. Fools would say it was all too silly for words but that was the challenge. Teetering on the borders of such utter nonsense but retaining shape and beauty – so thrilling and dangerous and brave. Thankfully even the most pompous commentators were compelled to receive the performance with open arms.