Monday 23rd May 2016

I’ve been on the phone night and day re: estate work as well as buying a nest of tables for the Gay Mother and only taking six hours’ sleep. So much to catch up on with failing strength.

The visit to Great Dixter was over two weeks ago. How lucky we were, how blessed with sunshine and the loveliness of England. Then there’s been the hog-roast in the Far West, dinner amongst the Damians with Ralph Kitto and an eBay fuelled dash to Brighton. Not to mention the upgrading of the home. More buying, more auction viewing.

I forgot about Ronnie Ronnie. He was seen recently at Ivor Soirey’s. As always he drew attention to his wig. Perhaps it’s a hair implant but it has a superb willed wig-impact. The colour, he explained, was between Stoat for winter and Ultra White Minx for summer.

But Dixter goes on in the absence of Christo. Life cannot be kept down here, even by Death, where gardening is the only life. This garden zings and never fails. Always a riot, no care for taste or propriety, glorious freedom but not chaos, endless renewal, more and more and more, pouring forth from a sparking human mind.

Angus Willis Thought this Ghastly: But It’s Flowers. This is How They Are

Quel Tapestry!

Giant Fennel! A Great Spectacle. Am Hoping They will Get Going in the Gay Mother’s Garden

Glory!

Foaming Glory!

A Rare Pastel Moment at Treasured Dixter

More Giant Fennel and Orange

Giant Fennel! Do you Like my Artful Graph?

Tulips!

Sunday 15th May 2016

In the quest for antiques ( I really must have that Empire sideboard) and the frequent to and fro from the Far West (last night a hog roast was given to thank the family in the parish hall), chronology has gawn out of the window.

While I was gasping in London, Val came over at some point, in fact was sitting on the door step when I came back from shopping – he was early. I’d not seen him since mid-February when the agony of the valance took place. On that occasion, Val keeled before dinner could be served in his flat- or indeed made. He’s been giving out, since, that he’s annoyed with me and nocturnal emails have indicated my extreme thickness etc. On the doorstep, Val at once attacked by my Zara stretch-slacks with false fly. ‘Don’t they reveal rather more than we want to see,’ was his opening remark. I was prepared for this because Val loves to greet by homing straight in on a spot or a fault with one’s frockage. Only I didn’t rage as planned. I said, ‘Now then, Val, don’t be horrid before we’ve even begun.’ The valance is in play again, to the extent that Val has made off with the fabric. He’d intended to run it up in situ on Aunt Olive’s machine now in my possession but thought of another more elaborate plan that involved not doing it there and then. Instead we looked on eBay for the Portland Vase. And a cauliflower tea pot.

Otherwise I’ve been much with Angus Willis and Fergus Strachan, one evening mid-week and last Saturday night in Hastings. Angus has ferociously not wanted the Gay Mother’s cast-off Denby ware egg-cups. ‘We don’t have anything with a pattern in the shop.  “Harvest Green” not wanted.’ I said, ‘They’d come in useful were you ever in a David and Goliath situation. Those egg-cups could be lethal if slung. They’re the weight of stones.’ In the end I left them on his kitchen table. Mid-week we had an Angus Willis private dish last-minute in the Shoreditch warehouse – noodle-soup with sliced prawn cake, spiced crab paste, rare Eastern leaves and other glories. Eating it, Fergus said, ‘With Dermarola nobody need age. It’s totally unnecessary to age with Dermarola.’ Down in the cottage at Battle, we had another private Angus Willis dish of lamb cutlets with leaves and garlic-leaf pesto. I hope you know that garlic leaf pesto has been this spring’s signature dish, made so by Angus Willis, who shapes the Nation’s eating. Although often in Far West near hedges full of garlic leaves, unfortunately I’ve failed to make garlic leaf pesto.

On Sunday morning, Angus read the Sunday magazines with contempt. ‘Scones with pistachio and cranberry!’ he spiked. ‘They don’t understand what a scone is. Scones with Earl Grey and Lavender! It’s what you put on the scone that matters.’ Later Fergus failed in the kitchen. ‘You’ve overcooked the eggs again,’ Angus withered. But subsequently the verdict was revised.

I spent a lot of time looking at antiques on-line. I was beginning to be exercised about the Empire sideboard. Then we went to Dixter

Saturday 14th May 2016

Still frantically trying to buy antiques and improve the home as well as garden. Tonight I go with the Gay Mother to a hog-roast in the village in celebration of a gift. But I must recall my visit last week to Wilton’s Music Hall. Some of Lord Arrowby’s friends who live in council flats and write revolutionary poetry were staging a perf at Wilton’s Music Hall. When out of the council flats they sing and dance and banter. Lord Arrowby, when out of his flat, tends to be at Buckingham Palace in deep confab with the Queen’s Private Sec.  Space is tight at Wilton’s. I was pressed close to this Lord in the narrow seats and so experienced at first hand not just an admin bulwark of our country but a sporty bulk as well.  Lord Arrowby engaged the lady on his other side. This was Babs from a council flat down the Commercial Road and mad keen on all the shows, dying to go on at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern now she’s retired and available. She explained that her singing is awful; there’d been complaints. Some directors had told her how awful she is but still she is hell-bent on engagements. She will perform regardless so will surely be fabulous. Lord Arrowby arranged by technology a connection to the Royal Vauxhall Tavern there and then. Babs would have been up for any adventure. She’d have run away on the spot with this handsome athletic administrative powerhouse of our Nation had he suggested it, which is unlikely. And never have known beyond the general allure of power that this Lord does indeed stalk the highest corridors.

The show began: the first part was a ballet about time in which she absolutely climbed on top of him and then he had to get up with her still on board. It was rather thrilling. In the interval Lord Arrowby mentioned the different types of love. He said they’d been referred to at his school. He used a very rude word. My God, this Lord was skittish what with talking to Babs and being with alternatives. ‘That’s eros type of love,’ I said. Babs had mentioned a fish and chip shop nearby but it seemed we weren’t to go there. ‘Then there’s brotherly love and platonic,’ Lord Arrowby said.

I knew I was going to love the next part of the Show because it was Diana and Marilyn. And I did. It was totally thrilling and glorious and wonderful and when it was over I just wanted it to start all over again. I couldn’t tell you what it was about or what happened. Marilyn was a man but Diana was completely her with the kohl and downward manipulative look. They danced away and there was music and their real voices laid on the top. What an absolute scream and uproar. Arthur Miller came into it and Camilla Parker-Bowles. There was a wistful kind of tragic air. I always said Diana would be back and I was right.

The great striding manly Lord strode out of the theatre and there was time for a final glass of wine before his car and back to papers in the flat. No fish and chips.

Sunday 8th May 2016

The Years Rolleth Round evermore – tulips of course a vital element. A year without tulips? There would be no year. These strange, lonely, freakish flowers thrusting forth on their spindly tentative stems, fragile in their boldness, stand-offish even when grouped.

Each year I stage displays in my front area, back garden and top terrace – 3 kinds in each place, which is always fraught. Will the nurseries send the right kinds? Last year in the back garden, yellow tulips, not ordered, appeared. Or my selection will turn out to be ill-advised, not to say a question of ‘what could I have been thinking?’ This year in the front area, I reeled in horror: pink and orange tulips emerged into the glorious light of day. One of the worst colour clashes known. But after a day or two, I observed that somehow they were functioning although very bedroom.

Let me speak no more and usher in the graphs

Front Area: Menton, Stunning Apricot and Ballerina: What Could I have Been Thinking of? Very Bedroom, Yet I get Away with It, I Hope

Front Area: Night-time View of Stunning Apricot, Ballerina and Mention

Another Night-time View of the Front Area Tulips

The Top Terrace: Bloms Sent Red Proud, Not First Proud which is Lemon Yellow. Red Not Quite What was Wanted

Well… What do you Think? Red Proud Sent by Mistake by Bloms: Bello Epoque and Shirley Otherwise

Back Garden: What was Ordered Came Up: Jackpot, Paul Schreer, Abu Hussein: Persian Carpet, Darling

Abu Hussein, Paul Schreer, Jackpot: As Ordered: With a Touch of a Carefully Selected Osteospermum which Can Be a Stiff Plant, if You’re Not Careful

Saturday 7th May 2016

Frantic! Summer is gruelling and much more demanding than winter. The summer cooking, clothes, sunshine showing up marks, the summer programme, the travelling – in winter one can be wrapped up and outdoors is less of a worry in terms of care. My summer programme is riveted into place until September now.

Last week I was down in the Far West with the Gay Mother. She’s much exercised about the wood anemones. Where are they? We launched into the woods in quest. Awful mud. Nature at its worst. So untidy. We saw the leaves at least of the wood anemones. Flowers reduced to a minimum this year. On the way back, the Gay Mother, fancying herself to be such, did an imitation of the road-sign warning, ‘Old People Crossing’. It’s a bent old person with a stick. She said Independent Age had objected to it. Independent Age is one of the groups she’s involved with through correspondence. Along with various MPs. The Sunday trading campaign has been won. There was another which involved writing to an MP not her own, but I can’t recall the cause.

Later we watched TV. She didn’t care for Jay Rayner on Masterchef at all: ‘Let’s see you doing some cooking, Jay Rayner,’ she said. ‘You know who his mother was, don’t you? That awful Claire Rayner. Bumptious. Full of herself.’ Mary Beard had been disappointment in her latest manifestation on TV earlier in the week: ‘I thought she’d improved but no! She looked like an absolute ratbag and insisted on waving her arms about. So exhausting to watch.’

Some of the Gay Mother’s friends have been recently to the Ice Hotel – just for one night. Sounds perfectly ghastly. If you want toilet in the night you have shimmy across a ice waste-hand to the main hotel. There are no toilets in the ice bit. One night was quite enough. You get some kind of chamber made of ice where you have to sleep in several sleeping bags because it’s minus 25. Not one’s usual idea of an hotel.

‘Prince didn’t mean anything to me,’ the Gay Mother said. ‘Nor did David Bowie although he did to the Prime Minister.’ She also mentioned the Pinwell sisters. Violet Pinwell was not only an 1st class carver but a very good businesswoman. I thought she knew them, the way she was talking. ‘Oh no, they were 1880s.’ We watched Googlebox, which she’d never seen before. She liked the woman with her gay friend. I think she thought they were caring. The others – she couldn’t understand their drawing rooms. Why were they sitting in rows?

The Gay Mother is Throwing Out Antiques: These Denby Ware Egg Cups are No Longer Required. I Thought They’d be Perfect for Angus Wilis’s Shop but No! Absolutely not Wanted: Nothing with a Pattern in that Shop 

Sunday 1st May 2016

I’ve mentioned before that the prospect of mineral money (as yet not materialising, if ever) has sown discontent with my decor. I dream of unlimited antiques, I’ve made lists, I crave and crave. Will my decor ever be right? I imagine the day when I’ll be able to sink into my sofa and experience a wave of relief and content: at last, at last my decor is right. There’s nothing more to be done. But now it’s a race against time. Will I live to see it right? What if I’m took before my decor is complete? Before I’ve exhausted the possibilities of all known antiques? There’s always some superb item just out of reach.

So far, I’ve bought two chandeliers from a derelict dead man living before death in a flat in Pimlico for £100 (so his decor was over), another French chandelier on eBay, various dinner plates on eBay, a black Wedgwood tea-set, one little bookcase from a shop in Edinburgh and one Empire piece (rather expensive) from Welshpool. I’ll show you the Empire side table one day. It’s a step in the right direction. The chandeliers aren’t quite right yet. The dead-man pieces are modern but quite nice, thought to be Venetian. One has flowered quite well in my dining room. It’s murky in there as to light and one can get away with more. These chandeliers have plastic arms, you see. I’d never be able to convince anybody that they’d cost £25,000 or thereabouts. The other dead-man chandelier has gone into the back drawing room where there was nothing hanging before. The other, French, eBay one was intended for there but turned out to be too small. So that went into the hall where it looks a bit dismal on its own. So we’re back to square one in the back drawing room, still questing for a glass item of some kind of lots of good gilt included. As for the hall, I envisage a scene as in the chapel at St Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai Desert – a mass of glittering hanging lamps.

The work of getting these chandeliers up! – I can’t begin to tell you. I nearly died going twice to Swiss Cottage to the only shop left with chandelier ceiling roses. Thank the Lord dear Miroslav was on hand to put them up for me – the roses that is. I self-hung the actual chandeliers. Terribly fiddly. Hours.

My main chandelier, which got damaged when I moved to my present Official Residence in 1996 and has hung wonky ever since  in my front drawing room, finally, finally I got repaired as part of this present drive. It came back last week but the badly squewed bit repaired has revealed how in other respects it isn’t straight. At Chatsworth or Buckingham Palace they’d send for the chandelier department and some of the best chandelier brains in existence would whirr on the problem. What can you do?

I’ve got so many plans: I’m going to tortoiseshell my trolley. But that’s enough decor for now.

eBay-bought French Chandelier Now Hanging in my Hall, to be Joined by Others in Due Course

Dead-Man Venetian (Possibly) Chandelier, £100 for two on eBay

My Original Bag Chandelier, Bought for £1000 in the 80s. Originally it Was Aunt Queenie’s Diamonds that were Sold. Now Repaired but Still Wonky

Wednesday 27th April 2016

Charlie Hurling and Archie Brahms dined last min.  The incident of the pubic hair gathered by the murderer, Christie, was recalled by Fergus Strachan – a friend of his went to the Black Museum privately, opened a matchbox and out flew something that went up her nose. Only then did she learn that the box contained pubic hairs collected by Christie, this being his particular fetish re: his victims. It was thought a perfect story for the Daily Star but ultimately she couldn’t go on the record. Charlie thought of all the worst things to say and said them, about how one of Angus Willis’s early boyfriends had a microphone penis and another just a little button. There was quite a debate about what a microphone penis could do. Merle Barr as the only lady present was naturally a target as Charlie developed a special nostalgia for FemFresh, an ultimate ladies’ product, now discredited, I believe. But Charlie has known a woman, if not several. I’m not so sure why or in what circs. There seemed to be so many wheat fields and so many machinations in the days of youth. His present organ was also mentioned and its recent adventures.

That was one day. Another was Harry Rollo and Mercury, Mr Kitten. Yes, they’re in! They’ve acquired Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall’s previous apartment by sheer force of will. His polished concrete worktops are to remain – Bruce MacBain not allowed near as an architect. There are important London views from the pinnacle and terraces are planned to be thrust out. I asked Harry if there are any other notes or only the ones that are written down – in mu, that is. He said, Yes, in Indian mu and also perhaps unknown although now sounding out of tune but who knows in the future. So mu could change completely in years to come. Will we ever know it? A certain musical lord was mentioned and all six guests groaned in unison. Also the Queen, who told Harry that music is important.

Glenn was no show on Thursday though. Genevieve Suzy and I arrived in the foyer at the Colosseum – tiny little notice saying, ‘Glenn has cancelled.’ No Glenn Close for Sunset Boulevard. Went mental. Fearful scenes in the foyer. No money back, you see, not even a little bit. ‘Call for the cameras,’ Genevieve said. ‘This is an item.’ But not all the might of Dainty Lady TV could wrest a penny out of them. Now they’re emailing saying the substitute was marvellous and it was quite good enough. But that was just luck. Genevieve and I went home. We couldn’t face the show at all. I didn’t know why I’d booked. I can’t bear Andrew Lloyd Webber. But then I read that gays go mad for Glenn Close in Sunset Boulevard, with her ever-increasing frockage – so I suppose that was why.

Finally on Saturday I heard that President Obama was to attend the Globe Theatre. I went down and encountered the Presidential procession – 40 vehicles at least, with armed guards ready to leap out of the open back of one vehicle. I just glimpsed him through the darkened glass. Then again when he left. So now I’ve seen in person the two great black men of our era – Nelson Mandela and President Barack Obama. Mandela I saw at High Veldt on Campden Hill years ago. He was with a Princess, his daughter.

Today they bought my chandelier back. It still isn’t quite straight.

The Presidential Limo Leaving the Globe

Sunday 24th April 2016

Just so much to cover – yesterday I saw Him whereas Thursday was all about Her. Then there was the Glenn Close debacle; Harry Rollo and Mercury, Mr Kitten’s new residence (yes, the purchase went through: ‘We had to have it,’ Harry said. So they did. Now they’ve got Hugh Fearnley Wittingstall’s concrete worktops which Bruce MacBain isn’t allowed to remove): not to mention a little dinner I gave and the affair of a pubic hair collected by the murderer, Christie.

Not forgetting my eternal refurb: the chandeliers are up, for the time being. The possibility of money has opened up vistas of aggrandisement in perpetuity. Whatever is done can be done again – with money.

But last Sunday I went out with Robert Nevil. We went to Beth Chatto’s.  Robert Nevil was in luxury pale teal knit given him by Blanche Spain. In the car, he was getting through to India where chaos rules as always. They’re all leaving when he arrives. The Indian friends hover at the intersection of the Pony Club/book-writing world or are at no inter-section at all.

Do you know Beth Chatto’s? She is one of England’s leading gardeners, rumoured still to be alive. But her garden is troublesome. ‘It’s just not my kind of garden,’ Robert Nevil said. He loathed the low stone walls in the patio area.  Suburban. The previous week he had condemned quite a few of the Monets at the Monet exhibition at the Royal Academy.  The Paul Klees also were out.  He said the Monets were hit and miss – if miss, messy . The Bonnard should be cut in half and lose the slag on the lounger.

What’s wrong with Beth’s garden? The plants are lovely, the periwinkles most intriguing. Many woodland items. But somehow the sum of the parts… It’s in Essex, maybe. There’s no enclosed space. If a garden is a dream place where you retreat from the world… That’s what Monet did at Giverny during the 1st World War, doing all those huge water-lily pictures when he could have just been retired. Well done! Monet.

It’s a good thing that Beth’s garden isn’t quite right because it brings one closer to importance. ‘You’re not important,’ Robert Nevil kept informing me. But in fact I am. If important people like Beth aren’t quite as important as they appear then there’s more room for me. At the White House they change the sheets if you lie down for ten minutes in the afternoon. That’s what Nancy Reagan said. Well, I don’t feel so far from that world of endlessly renewed bed linen, perpetual vac-ing, everything perfect, new couture outfits every day, armies of staff, conservators crawling over one’s residence… That’s how the world has changed in our day. We’ve all got more important and important people have got less important – or at least I have.

We lunched in Beth’s lunch cafe. I was suffering from hideous swelling and bloating but it was other ancient lunchers who were subject to fart-gas. ‘Quel anal yap!’ Robert Nevil remarked, reducing the neighbouring quiche-eaters to small piles of ash. We wiped out the entire lunch room on exit, Robert Nevil in the luxury teal knit and me cap-a-ped in white with my over-cooked spinach suede jacket, still hanging on as a life-piece. But it was at dinner back in the Nevil res that it got stained – yet again. But I put talcum powder for several days and it recovered.

Anyway Beth’s plants are marvellous and we went in for some perennial wallflowers. On the way back, Joshua Baring What’sApp-ed from Wiltshire, where Bover Baring, father of 6,  was roasting an ox for family lunch while Lady Baring and Joshua discussed new curtain treatments for Graham Norton and the richest man in China. The Baringmobile was blocked returning to London and Joshua was under pressure, having an evening engagement requiring a change of clothes because of ox-smoke contamination.

Back at the Nevil res we spent some time trying to find out whether Jill Bacon got cut off by her rich father for marrying Cecil Day-Lewis. Certainly in later life, she had a dreary little car that in no way reflected the head of the British film industry. This led to picking over Rosamund Lehman who was Jill Bacon’s best friend but she stole Cecil from her – or the other way round. RH was a book-writing person who required to be the centre of attention. She commissioned her own biography while still alive then as good as dictated it down the phone.  She believed that everyone found her wildly attractive. That’s what I shall do when Robert Nevil is writing my life – to ensure that it isn’t made up.

Robert Nevil made some other noteworthy remarks but I can’t remember what they were.

Oh… I completely forgot to mention about Robert Nevil’s dinner. Two days previously he had given a dinner. His dinner guests are younger than his luncheon guests. The luncheon guests are over 90, in ‘art’ clothing and boat-like lace-up shoes. Their husbands are long-gone and someone incredibly famous like Cyril Connolly or Rab Butler.  If Dhiren Bookershortlistgee phones up, they immediately hurl the most stunning abuse. The dinner-guests are twenty years younger and very finished, poised with conversation to do with the Pony Club/book-writing world. I am considered too silly to mix with them. On this occasion, a Countess suddenly revealed that she had been phoned in the middle of the night by Princess Margaret, terribly upset because Edna O’Brien had called her a rude name, she said. Another time, this Countess had been invited to bathe in a pool with Princess Margaret but she had no cossy. ‘Oh, have one of Lilibet’s,’ Prin Marg said.

Trilliums! Trilliums! Trilliums! Rare! Rare! But Somehow Not Enough At Beth’s

Robert Nevil Said: Better Without this Large Girl: A Pisarro at the Monet Exhibi

Robert Nevil didn’t Like this Monet

Robert Nevil Liked this One: Only English Painting in Monet Show: Alfred Parsons

Lop this Bonnard in Half, Robert Nevil said, and Lose the Slag

Thursday 21st April 2016

At last the day has come! I break from re-furb, garden, face, hair and outfit to think of Her, through 90 years always in an outfit, always finished, never a scratch on her handbag. How has she done it? 64 years on the Throne and never once stained. As Eve Pollard said all those years ago, commenting on Ascot Races: ‘Royalty are marvellous: they never cease or stain.’ That is her Reign in a sense. As you know, I recorded 40 minutes to camera for Dainty Lady TV‘s celebration of her birthday. She has never made the mistake of being too much of a person, more of a personage, yet not glacial, superbly minimal, no gushing.

I lunched at the Multis’ café. Did you know they’ve sprung up with another one? It was opened last week and I was graciously bidden to the opening. The Multis have not been seen for some time but surely they create a spectacle. The new café is emperor-style with streaked honey marble floor and counter as one massive piece and a gold mosaic back-wall. Contrasting are a motley of second-hand 50s tables and chairs and crazy hanging lights, including the very last white-feather pom-pom hanging light from B and Q. This café stands on a raised terrace at the end of a massive vista of newly-built modern flats. In fine weather, it can be opened on all sides and becomes a kind of miracle of marble and roof hanging there with nothing visible to hold it up.

But today the original café was offering a free glass of prosecco with lunch to mark the Royal Birthday. Val was unable to come owing to total lack of sleep and danger of collapse but he was comfortable in his armchair watching the Birthday on TV. So I lunched very well alone, nourished by Royalty and the free prosecco before going round to the new café where the Blond Multi was working on accounts. There I had a chocolate and almond cake to celebrate the Birthday and the new café and gave feedback on the cake. Elements of the service had to be attended to by the Multis. This café has only been open three days. They could have retired, you know, but no, like Her, they must go on.

Her hats, both days, I thought enchanting – most fanciful and extreme, as her hats always have been to give that little tug. The 1st day, it was an Easter bonnet really, with a slightly unhinged spray of flowers mounted at the front. The actual birthday hat had fabric tulips among other things – or perhaps they were real.

The Royal Prosecco Glass

The New Multi Cafe: the View From

Byzantine Interior of the New Multi Cafe

The New Multi Cafe: the Banquette was Made to Order

Tuesday 19th April 2016

Despite the usual spate of deaths, or perhaps because of, home improvement throbs through my entire fabric at the moment. I’m up a ladder night and day fiddling with the chandeliers bought from a dead man on eBay. £50 each. Awful flat in which he’d died on Pimlico estate. No wonder he died.

Last week, we had back-to-back funeral and memorial services in the Far West. Cousin Teddy-Vitorio died at 97. He lived deep in a valley, market-gardening for 50 years but was also a sage unknown to the world.  In the last twenty years he barely left his valley. A bashed-up Volvo estate car drew up outside the crem. and a cardboard box was drawn out of it, stamped in several places ‘St Bice’s Fruit Farm’ (the name of Cousin Teddy-Vitorio’s market garden). This was the coffin. It was an organic funeral, you see. Cousin Teddy-Vitorio was being delivered as farmed goods now to be whirled back into the ether as molecules making a contribution. That’s what Cousin Boniface, his son, who is a sort of monk, said in his address. Cousin Teddy was also a painter. His comical scenes of life in the Far West are masterpieces. But he cared nothing for fame or recognition and was latterly devoted to a work of philosophy, sections of which were read out during the service which wasn’t really a service – just readings, with recorded music at either end. This was one who lived an inner life that required nothing.  At the end, Cousin Paquita, the widow, rose and addressed the throng: ‘Teddy-Vitorio would have been astonished to see so many of you here. He would have said, if only one man and a dog had come, “I’m sure the dog has something better to do”.’

Afterwards we gathered at an hotel accustomed to wakes, being near the Crem. Long-lost rellies abounded and from death sprang much weaving of who was who and how connected. Cousin Teddy’s father and my great-grandfather were 1st cousins, but vastly separated in age. Their fathers, although brothers, were 20 years apart with crowds of other brothers in between. It was hours of exciting work to stitch it all back together again.

On the way back, the Gay Mother wished to visit a Waitrose, having never seen one. She was much taken with the bagged pea-shoots and we got a duck down from £16 to £8. She reports that she’s had a lot of benefit from that duck subsequently in terms of stock, soups and duck-flavourings. It rather recalls the time Val embarked on Ballentine of Duck for a Christmas party in the early 80s and Twirly Godfrey said, so ducky was his flat with the duck work, ‘The ducks will re-form from the air.’

The very next day we were off again for a memorial (one of our mineral neighbours and fellow landed gentry). Hymns and tributes: some daring mention of lippy and snogging in the 50s along with her presents which went on being New Berry Fruits long after these had fallen out of flavour with the general population. Upon inheriting, she’d cleared out the cobwebs of her aunt, Mrs Barnet-Gigg, who’d shut up the Chinese Drawing Room and most of the rest of the house. Now her time in situ is over in a blink (perhaps 35 years) and the next generation looms. I wished I’d had a better coat for the exit from the Church. My old Prada blue with a petrol sheen wasn’t quite good enough for a conspicuous departure as a leading family.