Tuesday 5th July 2016

There’s such a back-log. I’m weeding for the Gay Mother today and tomorrow. Acres of imperial garden to be done. I don’t see that I’ll have any time to vac for her and she’s 92, as you know.

The Royal Academy Summer Exhib is to be covered, as well as my visit to Val (with Chelsea Harbour thrown in), our lunch at the cafe as featured in Normal for Norfolk (that’s going back ages). I forgot to mention that Lord Arrowby returned to the highest corridors of power on the Monday after Brexit and at once was texting me about where to get a new rug for his newly refurnished sitting area with maddening TV. I said Chelsea Harbour, of course. I think the Indian Rush Matting might be up his street.

Then last Thursday was Robert Nevil’s launch for his book about England from the Pony Club point of view. It’s called England through Pony Club Eyes. The launch was the golden essence of craziness at its best. But at it, Reggie Cresswell begged me to pronounce about Brexit. So I will.

Well, I did my best: night and day I was campaigning, as were all other Poor Little Rich Gays, save the Photo Multi. At the Palm Beach party given by Rick Rock and Lansdowne Reindorp both Multis were deeply caring and had a project of asking questions of others to drive through their great care. But when it came to Brexit, in later encounters, for the Photo Multi,  it was another story: take back control, trade with other nations, get rid of loathsome Leftie EU: that was it. No opposition possible, not even from close friends such as Arianna Chronicopoulos. The Blond Captain Multi was Remain apparently.

I have to say, they were fiery days before the Referendum. Marvellous to have a cause and to join with others. As you know, I am not naturally left-wing although prone to bouts of guilt about the Poor, mainly that they will not rise up and take away my Poor Little Rich Gay life. Campaigning for Remain one felt supremely virtuous and cleansed for the time being, absolutely on the side of right, able to unite with those from whom I am usually separated.

My conclusion to the whole debacle is simple: never were élites, such as the Poor Little Rich Gays, more desperately needed. I agree with the CEO of Credit Swiss who said the result shows the poor state of education in Britain. Nobody who had listened to what was said in the campaign could possibly have voted Leave if in their right mind. The Leave campaign presented no convincing argument about anything, only windy drivel about taking control and keeping out brown people. It’s quite impossible that leaving will help those it is said need help.

What now? Whatever pieties are uttered about respecting democracy, there’s an extraordinary reluctance to trigger Article 50. Anything could happen. The aftermath has been bizarre to say the least: the victors are destroyed: Gove won’t be PM, Boris is in ruins, Farage is spending more time with his family. Madame Therese, the likely next Prime Minister (frockage interest at least), plans to deliver Brexit but maintain our access to the single market – so how?

Somebody needs to think in a Poor Little Rich Gay way: i.e. the unthinkable.

Meanwhile, in dread I go about the streets: older wooly heads in crimplene? gum-chewing on benefits? Did they vote Leave? Are they the enemy?

Tuesday 28th June 2016

The fifth day since that Black Day. I’m beginning to think about new waste paper baskets for the guest bedrooms. Across the other side of that gulf was our visit to Peter Beale’s Rose Nursery where Robert Nevil was commissioned to buy a yellow scented rose for the ex-wife of one who throbs at the heart of our Nation – or did because 2012 and the Olympics was another age. And Joshua Baring was driving us all over Norfolk, whipping any slow coach in the way with a stinging whip and really just not putting up with Robert Nevil and myself who couldn’t follow the blue blob on Google Maps. Several times our vehicle plunged into the hedgerow in a manner of speaking. Joshua Baring was facing then a deeply minimal Henry James evening with a titled lady the only attendee. Genevieve Suzy went to the house of that titled person’s sister last week for a book launch, she being an important editor. On the day, Genevieve Suzy stood in the offices of Dainty Lady TV with her new miniature dach-y,  Diamonella, proclaiming: ‘Did I say I was going to …. ?’  – ‘On no account must I be late for … ‘ ‘I hope I get to …. before Mariella…’  In fact the mother and father and the two daughters,the titled and the editor,  at one time were said to ‘have London sewn up.’ No theatre show could begin until the father had arrived late and the mother wrote excellently on stains and cupboard management in the home.

Then there was my garden opening which went ahead as usual. I did a nicoise which I thought redundant but it was the chicken salad that was spurned. It’s always the way if you offer a melange – there’s a favourite and least favourite. In any case, the service went well this year with the buffet luncheon in the drawing room, then the public admitted who showed no hint of Brexit, then the tea in the dining room with the new basalt ware tea set and many different personnel from the luncheon.

Before that was the Palm Beach party. Landsdowne Reindorp and Rick Rock gave it in their Versailles apartment by Hyde Park. White jeans were worn of great tightness with azure shirts. Palm Beach greatnesses were over for a tour of English Statelies on a private basis, including one to which the public are not normally admitted. At least somebody loves us. Mingling were the Multis, pushing out with questions, engaging with determination, forceful in their service to others. But later, nearer the Black Day and after it, the Photo Multi emerged as a Brexiter, sweeping all before him, a vast mower mowing forward, unstoppable.

So to now: at the highest level of Our Nation, Lord Arrowby called an emergency tea party on Sunday. Last night Fergus Strachan and Angus Willis offered comfort in the Warehouse apartment with an Asian one-bowl supper. Prince Dmitri also joined. In an upsurge of pre-referendum confidence, Lord Arrowby had bought a new TV. It’s 55 inches. But doesn’t work, in the manner of TVs these days. Gone is the time of switch on and off. Lord Arrowby went absolutely mad and refused to re-tune. Later he showed his vestigial nipple – or so he said. He said he was evolved from some kind of sow or bitch dog with a double row of nipples to accommodate a litter. I got a cake from Waitrose which was welcomed by the shattered company. Lord Arrowby, of course, can put a kettle on but has no notion of further catering. He didn’t care for the Duchy biscuits I had bought but agreed to distribute them in the highest corridors of power. Even there they like biscuits.

So we go on.

Saturday 25th June 2016

I was shattered and remained closeted in my room on the phone to Fergus Strachan and then the Gay Mother. ‘Well, we’ll have to make the best of it,’ she said. Westfield Shopping Centre beckoned for comfort. I was due there anyway after Topman couriered my last suitlette over minus the trousers. Only on enquiring was it revealed they weren’t available. Fortunately the customer services telephone person traced a pair in the right size to Topman, Westfield Shopping Centre. So off I went for comfort. It was a long way and a hideous challenge to find the shop you want in the complex. Laura Malcolm whatsApp-ed: ‘Furious and upset.’ I proposed myself for luncheon. We managed to perk up. Was it the Dunkirk spirit? One can’t be too sure what’s happened to that now. Maybe it’s been wiped out since we don’t like them any more. We saw some migrants in the street. ‘How about we adopt Brexit attitudes?’ Laura said. ‘Yes, if you can’t beat them, join them,’ I said. We can all be hostile to outsiders for sport and to gain the comfort of solidarity if we really want to.  A Colombian man was cleaning Laura’s home. Non-EU at least. But we felt for Miroslav, except he’s just been round and is only interested in the football. Minette, my cleaner also: not bothered, although Rumanian. They are rather marvellous, these Eastern Europeans. I mean, what are we going to do for staff?

I wended my way home via Buckingham Palace for comfort, but she wasn’t there. Marvellous the way she proclaims that she’s ‘in’ with a huge great flag flying on her roof. Could be very inconvenient if you didn’t want anyone dropping by. Before that, with a huge effort, I visited that Furniture Cave down the bottom of the King’s Road – we’ve got to go on buying. But they have only have mega items these days – huge brand-new antique things of sickening opulence.

So back home I couldn’t resume my programme. I telephoned to Val, then Genevieve Suzy loomed from Brownies, where her daughter had been left. They’ve got this new dog, it’s a miniature Dachshund in a mink shade. Luckily she’s grown since Monday where I saw her in the Dainty Lady TV studios (she’s to have a regular segment) because really there’s quite a risk she could be stepped on being about the size of an eclair. Diamonella (she came with that name) scampered in my garden, then wee-ed the rug (it’s so old and no sign of a stain now: we sprayed at once), before falling asleep. Any exertion requires at least 30 minutes of bed rest. She’s got a pink blanky in which she is wrapped. Then we went off to Brownies where a huge presence of Remain voters (the producer of ‘The Dragon’s Den was there) were collecting their off-spring. The Brownies had been making a cake for birds to be put in the fridge over-night. I didn’t like to mention that this was a bizarre activity for midsummer when the birds are self-feeding. Back at the Suzy residence, we watched the news: ‘Prime Ministers crying… we must cover that,’ Genevieve cried. After that Graham Norton came on with Joanna and Jennifer who cheered up the Nation with their antics. They’ve made a new Ab Fab film. I’m sure it’s a mistake but there we are.

I am Proud to be of the Waitrose Twitterati: I Proclaimed to the Man in the Key Ring shop and he Knew at Once What I Meant

Genevieve Suzy’s New Dog in a Mink Shade: Diamonella

Thursday 16th June 2016

Last week was the visit to Sandringham St Kil -two nights in the remotest Fens for Robert Nevil and myself at Joshua Baring’s residence there. But Joshua Baring had only just opened Bruce MacBain’s new glass extension at the main Baring family residence in London. That was the Saturday before. Bruce MacBain has designed a structure to airy thinness beat with an upward thrusting roof on which sedums grow. Even Lord Baring is pleased with it. ‘I hope Bruce MacBain has given satisfaction,’ I said to him by the drinks table. ‘He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.’ This was the setting for the Baring relations and friends who are ash blond and azure if ladies and in stout canvas trews in a raspberry shade if men. Except of course for Bover Baring, Joshua’s older brother, who is a hot lad from a good background and likes being married – which could be said to be unusual these days. And Lady Baring: ‘Your usual Catherine Walker?’ I enquired. It wasn’t but might as well have been. A white lace-overlay top, back-buttoning with millions of tiny self-buttons, and the finest navy slacks. I shrieked with delight on seeing Bover again but he complained to Joshua that he’d been mocked. Later, at the buffet, he told Joshua that he was a poor imitation of me which is most unfair because Joshua had created himself before he’d even met me. Brothers: they tear each other to pieces.

So on the Tuesday Robert Nevil and I arrived at Sandringham St Kil. I travelled in biscuit and azure, Robert Nevil was in a stainless steel shade. We didn’t change for dinner. The main purpose of the visit was gardening. Joshua’s got a new garden which turned out not to have everything in it as heralded but is very Elizabethan and herbal, restrained in fact. Only the delphiniums have been devoured by slugs so Joshua was craving them above all else. We settled to rosé and Joshua regaled us with tales of the adventures of the younger Poor Little Rich Gays who aren’t settling down at all. In fact it’s getting worse and worse with the to-ing and fro-ing from outlying provincial towns. But Joshua achieved an amazing pastry for the 1st night dinner, prepared with the help of Robert Nevil while I was on the phone re: estate business.

The next day we aimed for Holt – where Kate Middleton shops for home things. Then we were to go on to the scene of Normal for Norfolk, as seen on TV. Joshua Baring knew all the connections. Never was anyone more in touch with the general scene while planning a Henry James evening for two incredibly remote grandees. Finally it was to be Peter Beales, where Robert Nevil was commissioned to buy a rose for a person whose husband throbs at the heart of our Nation’s life although not always in a good way: the first film was horror beyond belief and there was an appalling toilet incident in one of the other ones which was hugely mainstream: the film not the toilet incident.

Well, I’ve no time now … come back later for more. Hear how we careered all over Norfolk, sweeping all before us and got a shelf at the scene of Normal for Norfolk.

Bruce MacBain Extension to the Main Baring Residence in London on the Opening Night

Joshua Baring: Fritters as Pre- with Drinks at the Extension Opening

The Buffet at the Extension Opening: Salade Nicoise was Excellent but There was a Lot left over. Lord Baring was Served it until the Following Wednesday at Least

Tuesday 14th June 2016

How happy we were! After hallucinogenic Mount Stuart, the ancient simplicity of St Blane’s, mercifully a ruin. Our van conveyed us to the other end of the Isle of Bute.

Oh but I forgot Ascog Fernery! That was before St Blane’s but after Mount Stuart. Some middle-classes had bought the property two or three years ago; not Scottish. Substantial Victorian dwelling by the sea with a large garden in need of attention and a Victorian fernery found and restored by the previous owners containing Britain’s oldest fern which we saw, also now getting a bit dilap again. He said that she knew the names of all the plants but she, when she appeared, didn’t. She was drawn, in fact, to a ghostly wafer by the strain of the whole thing but they must battle on. What an enchanting spot and crazy garden, part woodland, with violently-coloured flowering trees and shrubs. He’s going to gild the top of the fernery and make it a feature to attract visitors. He asked me how to gild and I advised, that being something I’ve done in my life. I just hope they aren’t a weeny bit deluded and have got a good capital sum behind them. They must get on top of that ground elder.

So back to St Blane’s, an isolated ancient ruined church. You could just feel the Middle Ages and all that Faith going on in that lonely enchanting spot. The Isle of Bute is sheep-country with great sweeps of field going down to the sea. Nobody much about. Few dwellings. We were thrilled with it. It was completely satisfactory. At one point the Laird interrupted banter in the van (it was said that Matt Driver had been subject to fart gas at St Blane’s) to say we were just crossing over into the Highlands. The division between High and Low goes right through the Isle of Bute. Banter continued, riddled with tragedy. The Laird recounted his adventures when resident in those Scottish parts; his arrival by speed boat from Tinabuilaughie (something like that) at the Isle of Bute, where he engaged in a drinking den with ‘mates’. The local Police were charming concerning his subsequent lack of suitability at the wheel, on this and quite a few other occasions – although it was not quite as extreme as that time in Ab Fab when the traffic officer opened the driver’s door of her Jaguar and she just fell out onto the pavement. Then there were all the parents that have gone on before: ‘My mum and dad are in there,’ Moira MacMatron cried as we passed some cemetery gates. The Laird’s parents also are scattered in the vicinity.

We dined at the yacht club in Largs, the birthplace of Bruce MacBain, my architect; also the wedding place of the Laird and Lairdness 4 years ago since when they’ve been bantering away like billyho. The Laird provokes with smut and toilet talk; the Lairdess is patient, more in sadness than anger, but lobbs back when nec. She’s quite filthy herself and often mentions her attributes. Thank goodness the saccharine, kissy-kissy days of youth are over. I had a sundae. The sky was wildly apricot out towards Arran.

The next day was the Laird’s birthday. I sang Amazing Grace to mark the occasion. We visited the Kelpies and then the Falkirk Wheel. Laura Malcolm was not keen on too much engineering. But the Kelpies is Art, sort of, except she got fed up with the guide and wanted the tour lopped down. The Kelpies are two huge horses done in steel plates right beside a motorway – same idea as the Angel of the North. Famous Sculptor. Recently installed. Kelpies are creatures of Celtic legend – awfully alluring, but if you touch them you get glued on and dragged off and drowned. So not v. nice. I wonder if they’ll kill any motorists whizzing by on the neighbouring motorway. Also gestured towards are the working horses of the canals thereabouts. In fact, as we learned on our private tour, two retired such horses were the models, called Jimmy and Sam or some such. They’re still alive in a field somewhere. Lovely. We got a private glimpse of the inside of a Kelpie – a lot of struts, terrific engineering. Laura Malcolm a bit cross. In fact now I recall, one of the strands of banter was Matt Driver saying that Laura is really a man from Essex laying down the law: ‘Shut your gob, you bastard,’ she said, when he’d said it once too often. Laura is not in fact a man from Essex although one can see that it might be fun for her husband to think so for a while – to make a change.

Finally we van-ed forth for the Falkirk Wheel – which is a huge engineering wheel that lifts canal barges up and down from one section of the canal to another – it’s instead of locks, you see. Otherwise there’d have to be millions of locks. The Falkirk Wheel is fairly newly installed, there’s nothing like it in the world and it runs off a washing-machine engine. We went up in it and down again. When the Queen came she wasn’t allowed to ride in it because of Royal Security. Lovely view, rolling countryside, not very Scottish. Speaking of the Scots, I sensed they didn’t like me, maybe because I was in tartan. They’re very Scottish, even the young ones. They’re mad keen on their Scottish accents and really push the boat out: they say ‘sex’ instead of ‘six’. I think it’s fair to say I only saw one man with a fashion silloulette the entire time we were there and that was at the Falkirk Wheel. And only one in tartan too – also at the wheel. But it was bondage trousers left over from the Punk era.

In the evening we returned to London, the Laird and Lairdess to Usk and our Scottish interlude was over. But we will return.

My Second Set of Tartan Worn for the Isle of Bute Visit: Zara, Bought Specially. 100% Linen. Tres Good buy

My Topman Tartan Frock Coat, Bought Specially for the Scottish Visit: Fine But Don’t Wear in Sun because Nylon Shows up

St Blane’s: Spiritual Spot where it is Thought Matt Driver was Subject to Fart Gas

In this Hotel the Queen Stayed: Rothesay, Isle of Bute

My Sundae at Largs Yacht Club

This is a Kelpie

A Kelpie Rearing: Watch Out

Inside a Kelpie: Fantastic Struts

Classic Scottish Men’s Wear: That Shade of Peach Much Favoured

The Only Fashion Silloulette Seen on the Tour of Scotland

The Only Tartan Sighting on the Entire Scottish Tour:

Saturday 11th June 2016

Tomorrow is my garden opening: 10 lunch or more. Lord Arrowby isn’t coming. Buckingham Palace is my inspiration and my goal – I mean in terms of service, decor, restoration, antiques etc.

At least I’ve solved the problem of what trousers to wear with my crepe navy frock coat. Paul Smith came up trumps but so many of the houses have gone baggy and dreary. Can you believe it? But Paul Smith offer a grey slack in fine wool, tapered to nothing. Just a tiny adjustment to accommodate my massive thigh which will be complete in time for Glydenbourniana next Sunday. It’s a 10 a.m departure for Meistersinger. Two functions the day before, one of them involving baking. So the Glyndebourniana picnic must be fully honed in readiness.

Since my Scottish visit, there’s been the Sandringham St Kil interlude, the Palm Beach evening at Hyde Park (Joshua Baring did a full performance with accents of his visit to Palm Beach); now also Joshua Baring opened Bruce MacBain’s new glass extension at his parents’ residence last Saturday and I took Nabucco at Covent Garden on Monday, which turned out not to be Japanese.

So only time for two quick but vital points: posset is the keynote summer dessert for this summer. Joshua Baring served posset at his glass opening except it wasn’t posset it was pannacotta but we’ll let that pass. Posset is new this summer and huge. Get your posset made and eaten before it’s too late. I had it at my Rich Ladies table in the Paul Hamlyn bar at the Garden. It was mentioned somewhere else, I can’t remember where so it’s clearly massive.

Second: the ladies at Nabucco. It was the opening night (I didn’t realise) and such a range had been imported from America for some reason: there was the recently-released-from-clinic model, i.e. deathly white, with illness-tinted specs and crow hair. Another version is the really odd shape of head with coiffure to make it odder and absolutely clamped-on white frock. Finally the young, young A-line short frock with self-tanned knees (some lotion trapped in the crevices) and bird-bone feet (no stockings) at serious risk in nightmare clucks. American hairdressing! Can anyone explain it or where it comes from?

Seen on the Way to the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

Indestructible Look

Magnificent: This Stiff Independent Skirt Look is Big Just Now

Posset is Here: Key Dessert this Summer. Consume before it’s Too Late

Wednesday 8th June 2016

So at last we were before Mount Stuart. We were privately mini-bus-ed down from the Visitor Centre which it turned out was designed by a friend of Bruce McBain’s. Then privately ensconced in the purple drawing, ours exclusively for the duration of our time at Mount Stuart, our lunch venue, our coat and bag drop, our coffee source and home. It wasn’t quite purple, as banter, spilling in from our own mini-bus van, was quick to point out. Later, banter, in the presence of staff, took a different turn and staff were reduced to heaps of grey ash.

Do you know Mount Stuart? You cross over on the ferry to the Isle of Bute to see it. It is the favourite of the Laird and Lucinda Lambton, a massive high Gothic palace of the late Victorian time, vast, monumental, fantastic and seething with detail. Also a bit Italian with its loggia around the top. The Marquis of Bute was the richest man in the world at the time. Money was never mentioned throughout the building of the place. He was also a laudanum addict, as was the architect. So the whole place therefore is very possibly a drug trip rendered in stone and marble. Without Mount Stuart is strange and unsettling: it is hard to imagine what could be within. There is a closed-off quality, and bizarre outbursts on the facade of balconies and bay windows, with a sideways-on conservatory on the 1st floor and  the open loggia round the top, as already mentioned, which creates an area of darkness immediately underneath the roof when seen from below – a weird blank where everything else is so explicit.

Within are sumptuous marbles of every kind, a forest of gothic arches, stained glass casting hallucinatory light in alarming hues, hieroglyphs, astrological signs, pagan iconography, mice carved with other creatures in the capitals, mirrors, reflections, distortions. The visitor might wonder: where am I? What leads to where? Which staircase is this? Subsequent owners have tried to make the house…well… more homely. But this isn’t quite the point. There can be no other life in this house than the life of the house itself. So arsenic green and royal purple, quoin-ed ceilings, gold and wood panelling, carving, carving, carving – there’s no arguing with it. It’s huge and tiny and surely not charming or gracious. Perhaps even a touch of madness but there’s nothing like it. As The Laird said of another house nearby open to the public, ‘Well, it’s very splendid but it’s just a house…’

Mount Stuart from Without: But What is Within?

Mount Stuart: the Central Block. Not Quite Normal

The Purple Drawing Room: Our Private Retreat and Luncheon Room for Our Visit to Mount Stuart

Well this is Within. A Gothic Fantasy in Endless Different Marbles

The Mystery of Mount Stuart

The Star Ceiling of the Full Height Atrium at Mount Stuart

The Drawing Room Fireplace, Dislodged by a Subsequent Owner and Placed in the Garden for 70 Years

Arches Growing from the Water: the Swimming Pool at Mount Stuart

The Bedroom: So Intimate

The Bedroom Ceiling with Biblical Sequence Beneath

The Men’s Snooker Room

Male Porn in the Men’s Snooker Room

The Raeburn of the 2nd Marquess: a Rare Departure from the Agenda at Mount Stuart

Friday 3rd June 2016

The massive outing to Scotland, curated and guided by the Laird, was last weekend. We missed the Burrell Collection by the grace of Easy Jet being an hour and a half late. The Laird’s itinerary was colour-coded. There was fear that we’d be tested on the pre-booklet and DVD dispatched by post in advance from the Laird’s private office. But Laura Malcolm had become abusive at the suggestion of a test. Mount Stuart was to be the high-light of the visit. Do you know Mount Stuart? If not you soon will. It’s a hidden gem built in the 1880s by the then richest man in the world. Seats were not allocated in the mini-bus though and we drove straight to the Premier Inn at Greenock for a planned settling-in time. My room had a car-park view which I thought very suitable. Initially our mini-bus was parked right outside. Premier Inns are perfectly all right once you’ve got down the corridor of death to your room – which is purple and grey, quite large and designer although standard issue. There’s really nothing wrong with it. But the Premier Inn has no drawing room, the entrance lobby could be a pre-interogation station and outside there are no grounds, just the featureless butterscotch slab of the Premier Inn.

I changed into tartan. Just the Topman tartan trousers which proved throw-away, once-only because baggy and saggy and slimy as to fabric. But at £35, so what.  And tartan was essential for Scotland, surely. We were put into the mini-bus and removed to Gourock. I wondered at the landscape, the Clydeside. Where were the Bessemer Converters? Where the shipyards? It’s all been turned into waterside flats with spectacular views of bonnie hills and great sheets of Clyde river and even mountains in the distance. I’d no idea it was so resort-like and scenic. And the light! Evening drew in for hours. Even at 10pm it was flushed faded apricot.  Dinner was at the Cafe Continental, Gourock, where a football match was in progress on TV in the bar area. A thronging mass, although elsewhere Gourock is faded gentility beside large water. It was all so new to me. I was thrilled. The Laird had arranged place cards – made them on his computer, posted them in advance to the Cafe Continental and emailed a plan of where they were to go. I was facing the water and the sunset. Beamish O’Halloran of the Mail spoke of Ann Robinson, who regularly shouted at him out of her bedroom window as he passed: ‘O’Halloran, whose life are you going to ruin today?’

This was Scotland. I couldn’t believe it. In our own country yet not. They all had Scottish accents, even the young people, but only I was in tartan. But they were Scottish. There was no getting away from it. There was somewhere else.

Topman Came up Trumps with the Tartan Frock Coat for Scotland Reduced to £90

The Football Match at Gourock

The Premier Inn: Odd Cardboard-in-Bed Aspect

Scotland: Tinged with Apricot in the Long Sun-set: Magic and New. Really Well Done, Scotland

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

Friday 27th May 2016

And we had superb celebrity exposure including a direct encounter with household names known to Laura Malcolm and Matt Driver.

Aunt Lavinia was thrilled. Clare Balding was there. Laura Malcolm can’t stand her. We went in the Pullman train, we saw the granite sarcophagus with peep-holes for the garden inside it. We didn’t peep but wondered at the granite – a thing of wonder in itself. We took the Slave Garden, with its black space in the middle behind doors (where modern slavery occurs) and classic Caribbean planting round the edge, such as seen in Royston King’s garden (he was there, on a huge poster inside the tent, positioned behind Her Majesty, waiting to take over). The profile of that Lady, recessed through a thick wall with receding layers of flowers, wasn’t common. It was somehow arresting. We saw the field of knitted poppies. For the first time, as Royston pointed out, they’ve opened up the view to the Hospital. Cleve West’s garden for M & G was subdued, intriguingly quiet as to planting but let down by horrid smooth grey slabs on the floor. The Best in Show was Best in Show. Absolutely marvellous. Rare Mediterranean, Australian, Californian arid-loving plants as never seen before at Chelsea. A Designer’s garden, with strange metal slabs up-ended, really sumptuous polished stone flooring and clapper-bridge. One wouldn’t have it oneself but a Garden Designer has got to design a garden and this was as good as it can be. Next door was Worst in Show – the Brewin Dolphin garden – utter horror. Unfortunately Aunt Lavinia is still with them. The Gay Mother and I are not. The Occitaine Garden was marvellous except it had Rachel Da Thame in it. Get out of the Occitaine Garden, Rachel Da Thame. It was a quarry, dried up and dusty, trees and plants. Gold Medal, thank goodness. We also much liked a garden by a child-designer, who was in it – it was all about Jordan. Lovely pines, such as you see in Jordan, as I know. The York Minister garden, much heralded, was perfectly frightful. Blowsy, common planting supposed to be one of the windows at York Minny and vile ecclesiastical structures intruding.

No time for the artisan gardens round the back this year. So much to see elsewhere. Rather a good thing, because we also avoided the garden accessories area where Aunt Lavinia would surely have loudly condemned the goods in the hearing of their purveyors. Her voice, as you know, once ruled England.

By the granite sarcophagus was Evan Davis – extraordinary spider-like figure. Looked much better than on TV. Bronzed, in mildly waxed, quite frank jeans, probably very expensive. But it was earlier, before we reached Best in Show that we were whirled to screaming heights. I had the Gay Mother on the phone at the time. Laura and Matt were speaking to a het couple. Laura was trying to introduce me but I was snappy. ‘No, no,’I said to the lady, in fitted summer tweed shift dress. ‘I can’t meet you. I’m on the phone.’ Too late did I realise. This was a huge household name, her husband even huger. Matt and Laura have known them since Uni. There was correspondence and romance failing to loom. Now she is a magnificent deep celebrity runny honey colour, signalling a departure from reality and he of course on TV every week for the last 30 years is a blameless character although satirical. I said to the Gay Mother in the Far West, ‘You won’t like who we’re with…’ ‘Oh but I do. He’s got a sense of humour and loves the cathedrals.’ They were there because of their bank, she said. ‘Do you own the bank?’ I enquired. ‘Or did you tick one of those boxes when opening an account and win kets in a lottery?’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘we were invited, then disinvited. I made such a stink we got back on the list.’

We also saw some Chelsea Pensioners in wheelies. Laura Malcolm can’t stand them. Ever since that incident when they attacked Ivy Driver for playing with her ball in their park. She was only two.

Final View of Cleve West Garden, as Evening Drew

Cleve West Garden Let Down by Smooth Grey Stuff

Worst in Show: Brewin Dolphin Garden

Best Best in Show: Lovely Telegraph Garden

This Bridge so Delicious in Polished Stone in Best Best in Show Garden

Lovely Wall in Best in Best Show Garden: Hard Landscaping so Often Hideous in Chelsea Show Gardens

Lovely Jordan Garden By Boy Designer: Been to Jordan. V. Much For it

Occitaine Quarry Garden: Lovely

Rachel Da Thame! Get out of the Occitaine Show Garden

York Minster Horror Garden: Dismayed to See Won Best in Show by Public TV Vote. Wrong, Wrong, Wrong

Jim-Jam Look at Chelsea

Inside the Pullman: Nothing to do with Gardens but Nice

A Certain Person in Waiting for the Throne

Laura Malcolm Can’t Stand Them

Hotter in Real Life: Jeans were v. Frank

These Stones were Balanced Like This. No Glue

Slave Garden: Classic Caribbean Planting

Laura Malcolm Went Mental When She Saw This

It’s Her!

Last View of Hot Evan: Big Feet