Wednesday 30th September 2015

I thought I’d try out being very rich. Just a try-out, you understand. No actual spending.  How about approaching an Antique Fayre in Berkeley Square as if one were hellbent on off-loading £40,000 or maybe £20,000? Merton Silverwater gave me a card for LAPADA but Dainty Lady TV gave me another for the champagne opening. I rather hoped to avoid Merton Silverwater at the Champagne Opening but ran straight into her. Of course I absolutely had to go again to use her card but she wasn’t there. In truth I wanted to revise the Fayre and graph the antiques. So going twice was perfect. Also I went once more, in between, but it was about to close so I sailed round to Topman instead.

Money is a big worry at the moment. The timing couldn’t be worse. Money is greatly disliked and one isn’t supposed to have it. One is supposed to be paying taxes. I’ve been terribly worried about the State of the country and this Corbyn has been elected who is going to smooth out the most dreadful inequality and remove 20% of everything the top 10% have got. I’ve been dreadfully worried about those on the minimum wage or low pay. Ir’s just so awful that they’re paid so little and what is to be done? Also they could rise up and cause a revolution with blood on the streets. Also metal prices are plunging and those owning mines face ruin because of China which could ruin us all. But I was directed to yesterday’s Financial Times where the political columnist Janan Ganesh says that we’re terribly prosperous; apparently no dreadful inequality or suffering after all. That’s why Corbyn’s such a success, he says. We can afford to require nothing more of a politician than ‘authenticity’, whatever that means. If there were real trouble we might want someone, however ‘inauthentic’ who could do something. This Janan (v. glamorous from picture: have you heard of him?) says all Corbyn followers are middle-class and just looking for something to do. Most of them have never seen a poor person but like rallies.

I did feel a bit less guilty after The Bake Off. If we can afford to spend a whole hour on chocolate soufflés and watching people build a chocolate mountain cake (one of the contestants is a junior doctor: so plenty of time off from A&E for cream horn baking) can a few antiques do any harm? Well, if you’re thinking of being very rich, here’s what you can get at LAPADA Antiques Fayre Berkeley Square (finished now: it was last week) if your budget is in the £20 -40,000 range: one set of 7 elbow chairs for £14,000: very nice antiques from 18th century. Italian 17th century mirrors v. reasonable at £2400 for quite a big one. Rare Regency convex mirror with bamboo effect frame: £9450. Overmantle gilt mirror £5320. Carpets from £5000. 18th century glass rummers £88 each. So the big tip is: mirrors. Followed closely by carpets. I had a candelabra fished out of the glass case but the price tag didn’t say £1700, it said, £17,000. Of course once you’d achieved the £20 to £40,000 spend at LAPADA on antiques, you’d have to think if you really wanted them and where to put them. There could be some eBay work disposing of previous antiques or lesser furnishings. Possibly a new home would be required in which to put the antiques. Is one aiming, as a rich person, for a minimum object value of perhaps, £5000? So no item in the home is worth less? What would it be like to be surrounded by pieces of furniture worth £15,000 plus each?  That would just be the footstools probably. And would a peak ever be reached where everything was just right and there was absolutely no question, even if one thought about it very very hard,that there was no better more expensive alternative lurking somewhere just out of sight?

LAPADA Antiques Fayre Berkeley Square: It’s a Tent

Look Who was Present at the Champagne Opening of LAPADA Antiques Fayre? Sir Jacob Rees-Mogg!

Set of Six of These: £14,000

18th Century Italian: about £4000

18th Century Italian: £2400

This Overmantle was About £5000

18th Century Italian: £4200

 

Saturday 26th September 2015

Hanging on by a thread, Val was able to attend Buckingham Palace yesterday as the Summer Opening nears its end. The main purpose was to view and form a view of that rucked seam on her yellow garden party coat which I first saw on Press Day in July with Royston King. Val said: ‘Donald Trump? That is not hair, it’s insulating fibre. Who was that frightful right wing American Daily Mail journalist that we saw in Habitat all those years ago? She was working a similar look. Not good.’ Was it Anne Leslie? I wondered. Her hair is more burnished copper wires. I didn’t recall this momentous sighting. Luckily Val had a sudden flash despite being deathly pale with a crutch for support: ‘Janet Daley!’ Oh yes! Whatever happened to her?  Still barking away in the Graph, I believe, but never when I buy it. Google gives at once a view of her hair: a glimpse into the future of Right Wing hair?

Speaking of Right Wing, don’t mention the Multis. I’ve been Unfriended on Facebook as a punishment for them spurning my company in the Cretan Village House for which Fergus Strachan had paid and in which they were to have been his guests along with me. Perhaps also because I defeated their evil plan to introduce Aracnia Chronicopoulos into the house, initially without any reference to me despite that I would be staying in the house. But I intend to rise above it. On Thursday, which is my birthday, Robert Nevil, Val (should his health permit) and I intend to lunch at the Multis’ Dockland Cafe regardless.

But back to Le Palais Buckingham. Fearful crowds, which for some reason had not been cleared out of the way, Val threatening to fall over, his condition exacerbated by stop and start. Several times I reminded him: ‘You are Mrs De Winter now.’ He fought on. He thought the Hardy Amies evening dress revolting. Crowds were crowding round the tiara. ‘It’s a tiara,’ Val said, recalling the great aplomb with which Estate Agents, showing properties, fling open the bathroom door and announce, ‘This is the bathroom,’ as if it could be anything else. We battled into the Ball Room and were detained quite a while trying to work out whether the place settings accorded with the menu. Why so many glasses for only 3 courses? But was the cutlery lacking?  Finally we decided it was all right. Shattered by that, Val rested on a bench before the display of gifts from visiting Heads of State. We loved the Mexican Tree of Her Life but how would you clean it? Dunk in bucket of Flash intermittently? At last, at last, we gasped into the Music Room and there was the yellow Garden party coat with its compromised seam. I’d tried to get Lady Baring, who upholsters for Graham Norton among others, to come and view it. This seam ought to have been huge. But she was too busy upholstering for the richest man in China… in Eaton Square. Now finally finally a true expert was before the seam. Val paused. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Something’s wrong. In fact it’s the seam from Hell.’

I should also mention that Genevieve Suzy has this week filled the Dainty Lady TV screen with hedgehogs. Owing to recent elevation, she is now a celebrity so is therefore spending the next week at a hydro. No publicity.

The Yellow Garden Party Outfit: Val Confirms: ‘the Seam from Hell.’ Possibly the result of shrinkage after Cleaning

Given by the President of Mexico: A Tree of Her Life. But How to Clean it?

Her View of the Banquet: But Does the Place Setting Accord with the Menu? Finally We Conclude, ‘Yes’

A Less Recent Evening Frock by Hardy Amies: Val thought Horrid

Sunday 20th September 2015

‘You’ll only get one of these in a lifetime,’ the CEO said, gesturing to the marquee where 300 lunched on Thursday right beside the pit. Our mine has opened. Mines very rarely open. In fact only once in a lifetime, if at all. You may remember the Ground Breaking ceremony in March 2014 when Val attended with me. Well, now in that place where grandees including the local MP dug ceremonially with spades, is a vast processing plant that buzzed away agreeably throughout the luncheon and speeches on Thursday, making money. It’s easily the size of a ocean liner. What we’ll do with it if the mining company goes bust, Lord alone knows. So this was one of the highest days for our family. My grandfather was telephoned from Canada on a Saturday morning over 50 years ago. In those days a transatlantic call was an event. ‘I hear you’ve got a mine,’ a voice said. The man turned out to be off his head, but anyway that was the start of it. We never thought to see the day when 400 acres of moor and farmland would be ripped up, not counting the mine pit itself which is intended to achieve inter-galactic dimensions, and an industrial town established with processing plants and tubes and silos and car parks. Such a great day for the family. Now Royalties will roll in on a quarterly basis. I was at a loss for what to wear for the Opening. In the end I opted for Zara biscuit slacks, Zara cream jacket and the blood-orange scarf from Bamberg that bleeds (STILL no word from the shop in Bamberg re: how to fix the dye). But the Gay Mother said, ‘I thought you said we weren’t to stand out.’ So I got her to select an ensemble which was in dun and metal shades (very suitable, although the powder that leaves our plant is black) – a Balenciaga royal blue shirt, Prada stretch slacks and a Topman siver-grey jackette. I thought to change for the Trustees’ Meeting afterwards but didn’t. The Gay Mother had a country heather-mixture ensemble of various knits and tweeds – no jewellery: ‘It’ll be cold up at that mine,’ she said, correctly as it turned out. Well, of all the men present, there was only one other wearing fashion – I suspect he had designed the cup cakes for the occasion. He had a short scarf dashingly folded below the neck and modern retro hair. Our labels were all wrong: Cousin Smurry was rendered as Murry. Cousin Sapphire had no label at all. Cousin Monica was furious at the incompetence. I should mention that a warning light had come on in my Official Driving Car (as Joshua Baring calls it) near Reading the day before as I left the Capital for the Opening. The engine entered ‘limp mode’.  Two hours at Reading with the AA man and limp mode was at an end – for about 30 minutes. Then in the near far West, the specific Official Driving car assistance showed up but the required part was not to be had. So I limped on to the Gay Mother’s in the Far West. In the end the Official Driving car was tended to during the Mine Opening at the Mine by the specific Assistance Service. I don’t know what this bodes. The repair was successfully carried out. Of course we knew no-one at the luncheon or only a few apart from our private Vicar who gave the address at Cousin Barley’s wedding. ‘You could have a chapel put up here,’ I said. He was thrilled with the idea. He loves theatre and the fun side of religion. A mining chapel would be a whole new style.  Lunch was a hog-roast, which the dear Australians who are mining the mine, had understood was traditional in the Far West. They’d got in a good local caterer who showed up with two pigs on spits. Salads, stuffing, then mining cup cakes with coffee. A good stout lunch suitable to be eaten on the edge of a mine pit. Speeches were given: the Australian High Commissioner, the Lord Lieutenant, the Chairman of the Board , the CEO – all very historic and radiant. Great mining hope. But the metal prices are sinking, you see. China has met crikation, is jammed. None of this was mentioned. Ten years ago we had no mine. Or we had it but it was doing nothing, not even a basic rent was coming in but we never thought about it. Now we have it, the promise of riches is dangling and I at least am wracked. Will I be able to buy antiques at £10,000 a throw or won’t I? Will I be able to have couture like the Queen? All is confusion and uncertainty. More, more, more… me, me, me. I would say, ‘Never go onto the uplands of money. It’s Hell there. Look what happened to the Multis.’ We’ve seen their suffering with money. Better to give to the Poor or devote entirely to others. How about a bare simple life? Well, how about it?

Our Mine in March 2014, Before Development Began: These are the Old Mine Buildings

The Same View Today: With the New Crushing Plant

The Processing Plant: the Size of an Ocean Liner Easily

My Outfit for the Opening: Suitably Metallic

The Marquee for the Once-in-a-Lifetime Mine Opening

The View of the Pit from the Mine Opening Luncheon

High Commissioner of Australia at the Mine Opening. Her Majesty was Also Represented

Sunday 13th September 2015

Fergus Strachan took over a Cretan village for his 50th birthday. This is the same village that the Multis were finally unable to be in, although initially from many months they had undertaken to be Fergus’s guests in a village house with me. But at the last minute they had to overturn the arrangement and did not take the accommodation already paid for by Fergus. Instead they positioned themselves in a block of flats by the sea a few miles away, from where their anxiety built up as how they would join the birthday party group in the village. What a rich web the Poor Little Rich Gay weaves to belong and yet be apart and above. Their plan to introduce Aracnia Chronicopoulos into the village house unbeknownst to me was foiled though. I, Adrian Edge, saw to that.  In glory the Multis appeared in a Volkswagen open top vehicle little modified from the one in which Hitler paraded through the streets. But further sadness for them ensued. And a thunderbolt was dropped elsewhere.

Guests assembled for the main birthday celebration on Monday in the courtyard of Angus and Fergus’s particular village house. All were dressed in white by request which produced a strange effect of uniformity and sprite-like presence although the vast majority of the guests are known to be utterly impossible and massively present as persons. Dr Whipper, for instance, had earlier showed his Prada shirt, which early in its career, had acquired ink stains. The Doctor was days and days with solvents and finally re-dyed the entire shirt. His wife, Olive Wildish, the fabric designer who has recently been 4 weeks up a mountain in Morocco with some Moroccan weaving ladies (no running water), explained that her husband is quite capable of setting off for Felixstowe on a Sunday where he will wind-surf in muddy  water 3 miles out of sea. The equipment, you may know, is a tiny board with a sail and you have to cling on for dear life but the whizzing along is thrilling. Dr Whipper has also developed a cure for anorexia: pay no attention. It works wonders and it recommended by specialists world-wide. Charlie Hurling was wearing a white dress, or rather a shift with overtones of the mental patient in Little Britain. There was a danger to the floor beneath him from willed incontinence.

Poor Angus – Monday was the hottest day. Over 40c. All day he’d been in a furnace with octopus, liver, various pastes. Archie had tormented him about the beans, falsely claiming to have drained them while Angus’s back was turned which caused an outbreak of viciousness. On top of this Angus had a plan of which he’d told nobody but which was to cause a sensation.

Finally the Multis arrived, late. The Photo Multi was already photographing. They poured forth charm which was a wise move for the story of their spurning of Fergus’s village house had been widely circulated amongst those who had never met them and there was a serious swing to the Left , the kind of cruel anti-money thrust which could lead to the Mansion Tax. But the Multis asked questions and the Photo Multi took photos. The Blond Multi confided that he is terribly shy and finds social occasions so difficult. Sadly he was to be spurned the next day by some of Fergus’s friends, one of whom’s father was a milkman. The tragedy is that had the Blond Multi been in the village house as originally planned with me, and thereby been integrated, none of this misfortune would have befallen him. But as we know, being in the village house surrounded by others was impossible for the Multis.

But back to Fergus’s glorious white party for his 50th birthday. Fergus had somehow acquired a megaphone through which he addressed the guests. I think it was about the music which was a medley of dance tunes from his lifetime. But Angus was at his side and up to something. He handed Fergus a card which Fergus read. Whatever it was it had a strong effect but whether a paroxysm of laughter or tears it was impossible to tell. What could it be? Was Angus announcing that he’d be doing less with pastry in the future. Or moving more into chick peas. Fergus was still being urged to read the card aloud but could not. Finally Angus seized it and began. It was a poem, in rhyme. Well, the final line went…. ‘Will you marry me? It was as if at once the entire Cretan village fell down. All the ladies burst into tears and either rushed to hug Fergus or fell to the floor. It’s been years, you see. Angus just wouldn’t marry because of his Poor Little Rich Gay independence. He wouldn’t and wouldn’t. Raymonda, his niece, knew all about it and was saying so. So at last at last, they’re to marry. And the joy was tremendous. Even more so when the truth quickly dawned. Another function! I was not alone in thinking: yards and yards of oyster satin; bags and shoes dyed to match. Outfits, menus, hair, gloves…. ‘The bridesmaid’s been fingered,’ Charlie Hurling was shouting. What could he have meant? Mercifully he didn’t wet the floor beneath his frock at least. But yes, bridesmaids, matrons of honour, intimate bridal attendants, the pre-bridal state, the actual bridal and post-bridal states. Months and months of delicious planning.

After that, Angus served a self-made baklava to the delirious bombed-out guests, some of whom were yet to rise from the floor. It was a baklava to surpass all baklavas because Angus had put lemon juice. Just as he did with the lamb on my first night. Angus’s use of lemon was the huge food story of the Cretan holiday, but it’s another story. Now after the food service and proposing marriage, he sat and was silent from the drama. Finally he said, ‘I hear people were crying when I proposed marriage. I can’t think why.’ I was quick to agree. Of course beneath the hard-bitten exterior Poor Little Rich Gays seethe with feeling. But we must go on, prancing, glancing, silly and never go-ey or lovely. Always a steel glint.

Charlie Hurling and Fern Willis in White for Fergus Strachan’s 50th Birthday

The View from the Cretan Village House Where Fergus Strachan’s 50th Birthday Took Place

The Great Moment: Fergus and Angus Become Engaged, After Angus Proposes Before all the Guests at Fergus’s 50th Birthday Party

Charlie Hurling Suffers a Wedgie at Fergus Strachan’s 50th Birthday Party in Crete

The Actual Card Containing Angus Willis’s Earth-Shattering Proposal of Marriage to Fergus Strachan

Tuesday 8th September 2015

Last night was Fergus Strachan’s 50th birthday, held in Crete. A bombshell was dropped. And the Multis arrived with a perfume by Creed as a present, which the Photo Multi confided to Fergus had cost £200. But first I must go back. I’m in a Cretan village house on the rare south coast (near to Libya, as Dr Whipper is fond of saying) with Merle Barr, former Head of Children. We’re separate bedrooms but living a married-type life: ‘You haven’t shut the fridge properly.’  ‘That peach needs throwing away.’ ‘No, it doesn’t.’ ‘Are you in charge of the toast?’ After 4 days, we’re very much used to each other and it’s a perfect marriage. Merle’s travelling arrangements are incredibly detailed. There’s nothing she hasn’t got in her bag: a selection of teas, two types of coffee, Muesli, a silk liner, in which her person can be bagged, and a large magnifying mirror for the magnification of her person.

On Saturday evening, a tremendous caravan of people and equipment picked its way perilously over rocks to the sea.  15 Poor Little Rich Gays were trekking. The peril was intense. Merle nearly jammed on some scree. A beer can burst. Bowls, glasses, grilling racks, octopus, wines – a panoply for a Poor Little Rich Gay fete was being heaved over rocks to the perfect spot. ‘I want those nudists out,’ Angus Willis, one of the world’s great food and home stylists, was saying and indeed a topless bikini-ed figure, slim-legged with helmet coiffure and face shrivelled and gouged by slavish sun-bathing (in fact a man) was in retreat. So the private space was achieved, perfect with shelter from rocks behind and leading onto a bay for swimming – and no alien humans in sight. But how was a dinner for 15 to occur, how was it to spring out of the rows of plastic bags on the sand?  Oh the upward struggle to the night-time beach barbecue as darkness fell. Angus built a fire. His fire-building is second to none. The drinks were poured. What if a Poor Little Rich Gay stepped in the fire though? We would have to chop off the foot and throw it in the sea. Somehow the miracle was achieved. I sat with Cilla Pencilpleat’s partner, James Dean. They live at some cemetery gates in Liverpool. It’s a living cemetery. He only likes old black and white films. Meanwhile Charlie Hurling was explaining about his father, whose third or fourth wife Charlie thought just a weeny bit commercial – in spirit only of course. In a moment of madness he screamed at her, not liking her: ‘You’re nothing but a common prostitute.’ Well,’ the woman said, ‘a girl’s got to earn her living somehow.’ Silence. Rather an astonishing response. She was putting a son through catering college, it emerged. Archie Brahams told me about the ‘Butler in the Buff’ service offered in his mansion rental property for hen parties. Really they’re personal trainers and real intimacy takes place upstairs after japes downstairs – so it is rumoured. One of the Butlers in the Buff, after ten years, can’t face anymore of it. A staggering new member of the party, not nude, was only nineteen. Raymonda is Fern Willis and Mr Dorset’s daughter, therefore Angus’ s niece. By Angus she was roundly abused to her face as dirty, talking nonsense and very bad. My God, the girl’s a tigress, despite her blonde enchantment and delicate frock and no sign of dirt. She was having none of it. What a goer! And her freedom. Charlie Hurling was hurling it about. Her adventures and adventurousness. Such abandon! But also the steeliness of one who lives for pleasure at certain hours. This girl will go far. Shrimps were by now coming off the barbecue. Merle Barr objected to the heads. But the flow was established and octopus and lamb poured forth. We were eating in the dark. Salad was offered. The risk was that certain important Poor Little Rich Gay hats and towels would never be found again. We were teetering on the verge of crisis at this pinnacle of uniqueness. Angus watered the fire and smoke billowed. The whole bay must have been alerted to this extraordinary event. The theatre of it, the spectacle. Another fire of wood was lit for gathering round for a camp fire effect. Poor Little Rich Gays lay on the sand in the exclusive firelight. It was a moment to be a picture but it could not last. Poor Little Rich Gays are not long still or they would never get on. But the immense ordeal of getting back, the packing up, the fearsome trek over rocks and through thorny bushes in complete darkness. ‘Let’s stay all night!’ Olive Wildish cried. But somehow there would have been consequences. At last we stirred to heave forth and the great return began. Merle and Olive nearly fell to their deaths but didn’t. All were restored to the car park intact by great good mercy.

The Beach on Fire: Angus Willis is a World Food Stylist and Fire-Builder Second to None. His Fires Never Go Out

The Rare Evening Setting for the Beach Fire Party in Crete

The Sun Goeth Down

Archie Brahams: Rare Fabrics and Legs

The Shrimps Are Offered

Darkness Descends at The Fire Party

The Final ‘Camp Fire’ for Camp Fire Effect

Sunday 6th September 2015

In a charming village house in Crete with Merle Barr, former Head of Children; I’m a guest of Fergus Strachan and it’s to be his 50th Birthday tomorrow. He’s looking incredibly fresh after cosmetic procedures 8 years ago. Twenty-five other Poor Little Rich Gays have foregathered in this remote place for the occasion, including Cilla Pencilpleat, Charlie Hurling, Olive Wildish, Dr Whipper, Archie Brahams and Mr Dorset. Last night we set fire to the beach.  The Multis were to have been here too, paid for by Fergus, for his 50th Birthday, in return for hospitality in Tuscany. But last Sunday they announced that they wouldn’t be taking the village house after all. They had made other arrangements to stay nearby in a seaside apartment apparently. They would still attend Fergus’s 50th birthday celebrations, of course.  Instead they wished to introduce Aracnia Chronicopoulos into the village house to be with me there. There are two bedrooms at least, so we wouldn’t have been required to marry. And I do have slight acquaintance with Aracnia, as does Fergus. She’s very dramatic. And very Greek. Fergus, already in Crete last Sunday and on holiday, was engaged in substantial WhatsApp activity as a result of this suggestion to which his suggestion was that the Multis should ask me, Adrian Edge, how I viewed this new arrangement, since it would be me in the village house with Aracnia. I was not averse indeed thrilled. A village house would, of course, have been impossible for the Multis. They could have become dangerous in it. Other friends, even Poor Little Rich Gays, would relish the novelty and the cosiness of being with friends in a simple village house for a week. But the Multis, with their millions and their personalities, are on another plane.  I can imagine the horror they suddenly faced, waking suddenly to the horror of the village house paid for by Fergus Strachan which they had carelessly accepted months ago. Once the alterations to the arrangements were completed in outline, the Multis were, of course, not further involved. At the executive level, one is not concerned with detail. On Thursday I left for Crete, accompanied by Merle Barr, with no news as to when exactly Aracnia would be coming to the village house. Fergus had heard nothing either. On arrival, it seemed that Merle was facing being in another village house with a shared bathroom, whereas in my village house, kindly provided by Fergus, there are two bathrooms. So, with no news of Aracnia, I had the affrontery to install Merle. ‘You’ve changed your mind,’ the Photo Multi protested via WhatsApp from London. ‘You’re slippery.’ The incredible millions of the Multis and also the incredible suffering.

Instant Club Class Effect: Flight from Wick to Heraklion Not Full

First View of Crete

Angus Willlis: Styling in His Villa Already Underway

Display of Stain Removers in Greek

Friday 4th September 2015

Unusual goings-on at Val’s. Deborah’s husband died weeks ago but she’s only just got around to burying him, possibly owing to indifference. Val says her make-up is applied with a boxing glove in a dark cupboard. The location of her mouth has been in question for years. Len was quite vile, even after, or especially after, being rescued by Val when he was crying for help and could be heard all over the block and Val got the Police. This was while Deborah, with her uncertain mouth, was out. So after the late cursory funeral, what does Deborah do? She lays the floral tributes in front of the block!  In the first place, who in their right mind would have sent floral tributes for such an unpleasant man? Val remarks. And what does Deborah indicate by this public display of them? That the block didn’t love Len enough? Now the flowers are rotting. I said to Val, ‘There’s a danger of misunderstanding. Passers-by might assume a tragic incident. Further flowers could follow. Before you know it your block could be a sea of loving flowers, like Kensington Palace after Diana.’  Come to think of it, Val himself could become a shrine in his own lifetime. Val said he hopes to nip out when the rubbish cart is next passing and fling the dismal wreaths in.

Wednesday 2nd September 2015

My Glyndebourniana season ended on 22nd August. This year I had intended to cut back and only take the one about the escape from the Seraglio. Apart from the expense how much longer can I go on trailing 80 miles there and back with a vast caravan of silverware, china and glass as well as linens? ‘You’ve got Herend,’ a woman at the next door picnic exclaimed on 22nd August. ‘You know it!’ I said. It’s the Hungarian Meissen, you know, picked up cheap by me after the Wall came down and Anthony Mottram moved into the former Bloc along with other leading Gays who saved the bloc and made it entrepreneurial. But somehow I ended up going three times to Glyndebourniana. Rape of Lucrece I couldn’t resist because it was cheaper. Joshua Baring did the food aspect of the picnic – salamis, parma ham, artichoke hearts, prawn salad, Salade Nicoise and a Pav. Sebastian Archer said that everybody was gawping at us in the loggia as well they might. Not just for the array of sensational food: I had on the red summer scarf from Bamberg, bought for Bayreuth, whose dye comes off and can’t be got out of whatever it’s got on. I’m in correspondence with the shop from whence it came. Also, I’m sure word went round that we were in the know. I’m sure we were seen in superb chance confab on the main lawn with Fiona Shaw, the director of The Rape, and Phyllida Lloyd, the director The Iron Lady and Mamma Mia. Oh yes, we were burningly central. As it happened I enjoyed The Rape the most as an opera (I forgot to say: Dame Judi Dench was robed and in the audience!). Robert Nevil and Joshua Baring were sure I wouldn’t like it, as was I. I even liked the libretto although it was fearfully purple and nonsensical once too often. Robert Nevil had done a pre-talk at Glyndebourniana on this very topic just the week before, for once not mentioning the Pony Club of Great Britain. But it was psychological and the scenario intriguing. The mu I thought remarkable – many arresting effects. The one about the Seraglio was criticised by the critics for being too much talking and not enough music. But I rather thought too much music and not enough talking. The mu was a bit highly wrought and artificial although the scenery and general effect of a rich orange glow (exotic) was lovely. We were a family group for the Seraglio with Aunt Lavinia and the Gay Mother in Alice Temperley. We had Laura Malcolm’s spinach and sultana tart (the one that in Normandy got re-directed, with apricots substituted for sultanas), then cold fillet beef with Ottolenghi burnt tomato sauce. The pudding wasn’t by me. Aunt Lavinia got it from this new grand takeaway place she’s found. It was a cream and sponge confection: very good. Otherwise nobody was at Glyndebourniana that time. I suppose the greatest Glyndebourniana this year was Saul, which I seized last minute at reckless expense because the reviews drove one to desperation. It wasn’t so much the opera which I can’t say I found musically interesting although the visual effects were stunning. It was more the glorious day and being at last on the lawn, among other things. Owing to a drama with Connor Cadeaux, I co-oped the hot boy Doc, Finn Magnus, last minute and he emerged in a fantastic outfit. I think on the lawn people were looking at the pairing and experiencing outfit envy. My picnic and table picture gave me satisfaction. I did a simple trout fillet with Sauce Vert, a new chicken salad from Jamie Oliver with cucumber and almonds – not sure about the cumin. But I never am sure about cumin. Finally Finn suggested we linger in the coffee bar before setting off for London and that was a triumph. We knew everybody. I’d been telling Finn about my cousin the famous endocronologist . Right up his street being a doctor – would you believe it, he was there! We didn’t see him. He was parking the car  but I spoke to his wife. No sooner was that over, than enthroned on a bench was Pearl Barley, the novelist and critic! Absolute raptures. He said, ‘It’s just an old oratario really,’ before setting out with private driver for London. With him was a lady who admired my outfit – my summer scarf, biscuit slacks and mega white jacket with satin cowl collar. The other lady was the publicity director who directed Mrs Thatcher on her publicity tour for her memoir. I was fizzy with happiness and belonging. So Glyndebourniana closed for me this year.

The Rape Prawns, pre-Cooking by Joshua Baring

My Bamberg-Bought Summer Scarf for Rape: It Bleeds but the Stains won’t Come Out

Dame Dench Robed and in the Audience for Rape

My Table Picture for Saul

Friday 28th August 2015

I forgot two important insider insights from Rufus Pitman, given at his sparkling couples lunch. Reggie Cresswell knew without knowing. ‘I think there was more you could have said,’ he told me when we met for an intricate vegetarian dinner on Wednesday. So it came back: sudden flash. Against a background of lederhosen, a rare herring starter, the wastelands around Vauxhall where a side of life is not known to most others as high in the land as Rufus Pitman, Rufus Pitman revealed two important insider insights, in addition to his intimacy in youth with a huge Government figure. The first was that he explained what exactly is meant by the phrase ‘sought ministerial guidance’ which featured in the recent Camila Batmanghelidjh affair. Nobody on the outside could possibly understand but Rufus explained that it is the most advanced form of objecting to the actions of ministers that a civil servant can indulge and rarely employed. The senior Civil Servant involved, who ‘sought ministerial guidance’ over donations to Camila, was showing outstanding boldness and undoubtedly led to her downfall. The second insight Rufus gave was that Mr Sauer (that’s Mrs Merkel’s husband) always telephones the Berlin noise abatement people as himself on the public complaining line if an outdoor concert near the Chancellery overruns by even a slither.

Tuesday 25th August 2015

It wasn’t just the lavish menu with full Parma ham pre-snacks, a herring salad starter of incredibly rarity and newness, slow-cooked shoulder and a knock-out trifle nor the verdant outdoor setting; Rufus Pitman sang a Chinese Rain Song (I think it was a Chinese Rain Song) with own piano accompaniment of fierce brevity and skill. That was at the end, as was Bruce MacBain’s assault upon my person which is now routine and very loving. At least I wasn’t thrown into the Thames. Raj Zoroaster wore lederhosen, complete with front flap, in honour of my recent visit to Bavaria. He can’t stand the Tories but Rufus quite tends to them, I think, at least some of the time. There’s often tremendous sword play about it and Raj goes, ‘Dislike, dislike, dislike,’ as if pressing the non-existent ‘Dislike’ button on Facebook. The other couple present where half Spanish and had come to the lunch directly from the Lake District. It was never clear what they’d been doing there. But the ceiling of Roderigo Maria’s office had fallen down while they were away owing to the Countess who owns it flooding it from her flat above with her dishwaster. This is the kind of thing the Aristocracy do to their tenants. Photos were available. ‘That’s a good lathe and plaster ceiling,’ Bruce MacBain said. ‘I hope you’re going to replace it as was.’ Roderigo Maria said nobody in Spain could stand the Spanish Royal Family. ‘Is that true?’ his other half, Morgan Sylvester, murmured lethally. But Roderigo Maria could well be one of those people who throws knives at a lady pinned to a board but never knifes her. Oh yes, they’re completely up to each other –  the zing and  combat of couples! It wasn’t just that Rufus told of his excessive intimacy on a college lawn with a person who is now top brass at the Min of Justice which if revealed would shatter the world. Nor that he said that the Queen and Mrs Merkel (re: her appearance before me at Bayreuth) were a lot firmer than President Obama in refusing the strictures of their security advisors. No, it was the marvellous undertow of couples, their sparkle and constant ping-pong as well as unrepeatable rude talk that would turn normal people, if overheard, to little heaps of ash. Raj said that somebody was given a biscuit after congress by his partner. I couldn’t quite catch it. Even as we came through the door Rufus was proclaiming about a bossy bottom. I’m not sure why. Then there was the business of the people in fox fetish outfits with tails, seen from afar.  The glorious freedom and range of gay couples.