Wednesday  27th March 2013

Plunged into logistical nightmare because of last minute cruise arranged by Genevieve Suzy of the magazine world. Val and I are to board at Barcelona and cruise to St Tropez next week, not on a paying basis. Just after Easter it would be, wouldn’t it?

I’ve taken my seedlings over to Robert Nevil’s for safe keeping.

But Saturday night was at Sandringham St Kil, where Joshua Baring, our youngest Poor Little Rich Gay, dined and lunched me with a sleep-over in between. He’s developed a country retreat at St Kil, a celebrated town heaped with 17th century buildings in strange watery flatlands inhabited by people possibly not alive. On previous visits the home was unrenovated but now it’s a dream, done with paint and Graham Norton level of upholstery (his upholsterer and curtain maker also supplies Graham Norton).

But at any minute he might board for New York. As indeed might Patrick Lockyer and Jesus, the under 30s in the party.

Joshua had just regained from New York. There he interviewed a mega-star for a magazine and went to a bar and met a man, who said the people he was with would be leaving shortly. Flattering. Another man undertook to dance with Joshua and even to finger him. Pushing back Joshua’s hair romantically, he exclaimed, ‘Your hairline! How old are you?’

Joshua is just thirty and there’s nothing wrong with his hairline. He proclaimed this story with triumph – oh the excellent cold perspective of the Poor Little Rich Gay, remarkable in one so young!  Patrick Lockyer, however, is preserving his hair with radical drug therapy actually intended to combat a life-threatening condition. He doesn’t in fact appear in court, just issues gagging orders from his desk. Nevertheless he regrets he didn’t start earlier because he’s got a small hole in his hairline on one side, so he says. He wears little skinny outfits to work. Jesus is not worried about his hair.

But all of them might board for New York at any moment.

The lack of home. Patrick’s tried Clapham but it’s too far from the desk where he issues the demands for silence. He’s moving to Museum Street. No ownership. Jesus is near Columbia Road Flower Market but soon to move in with a boyfriend before boarding for Columbia for six months.

At any minute any one of them could board for New York.

On Sunday morning we had serious conversation. They all know someone called Owen Jones who could destroy the known world as far as I can see. He’s ferocious at Haringay Public Library protesting against the cuts and appeared on Newsnight with David Starkie during the Summer Riots. Jesus is worried about lack of trickle-down and the widening gap between rich and poor. As for me, Adrian Edge, I am agonised but do believe in capitalism.

Mercifully, Joshua had unlimited champagne. He did three courses for dinner with a very finished patissiere level custard tart. Jesus and Patrick Lockyer were laid flat by the eating. So good was it, they ate too much then said it was all Joshua’s fault. There was excellent bickering in the front parlour and Joshua said they were fools. They were put to bed with buckets nearby but didn’t vomit. Patrick’s problem really was that he wore only a skimpy t-shirt, white with black dots (dalmatian). In this weather, he quivered from head to toe like a whippet, despite the dalmatian tendency of his fabric.

But it was all for style and nothing would coax him into a jumper. Fearless and fortitudinous, Joshua forged on.

Joshua Baring’s Lunch Table at St Kil: Note the Whites of Floor and Walls, Chosen from 600 Possible Whites. The Lunch was Lamb, Recreated from The Ivy

Saturday 23rd March 2013

Snowing: just about to board for the wilds of Sandringham St Kil for long-planned dinner and sleep-over with Joshua Baring, our youngest Poor Little Rich Gay. Taking Patrick Lockyer (fabulous hair) and Jesus with. Let danger of Death be no barrier to gaining for this dinner.

Have planned my outfits. Tomorrow am to be cap a ped cream in St Kil. See graph below.

Last night The Winslow Boy. It’s a play. Completely loved it. Not a moment of planning new schemes of decor. No wandering mind as per. Reggie Cresswell not keen though. Thought it dated.  Lord Arrowby lavished and paid for all the tickets! Stalls! 6 stalls seats. Champagne in the interval. Our presence noted by other Gays (not known to us) in the theatre such was our profile.

The main thing was the glory of Lord Arrowby, my former part-time love interest. Something’s changed. His radiance and miraculous translucent quality now!

Head to Toe in Cream for St Kil Tomorrow – If We Ever Gain

Plum Velvet Rare Japanese Slacks with Norweyan Grey Jumper for Warmth and Security in the Conditions

Friday 22nd March 2013

Still haven’t heard finally about that cruise. It looks as if we’ll have to cruise on until the Monday rather be released on the Sunday.

Now I’m dashing for The Winslow Boy. Lord Arrowby (aka Sir Robert Morton) has organised a theatre outing and is actually using me, Adrian Edge!  All the world-class Poor Little Rich Gays are coming bar a few.

No progress on the old rose carpet. Just set-backs (see comments on previous posts). But we’re building up to the Crucifixion, so I suppose it’s only to be expected.

Tomorrow to St Kil – snow threatening but I am determined to get through. Two treasures will be on board – Jesus and Patrick Lockyer. So massive responsibility for me at the wheel as we forge into that strange, watery other world of St Kil.

I see a TV murder drama coming on with lashing rain (or lashing snow: same difference) and driving wind-screen wipers with helpless faces peering from within the vehicle.

My engagements are coming back to me as I write. Writing is so therapeutic.

Last night we took a gay group at the accountancy firm – where the Multis began in money and where Prince Dmitri Hersov still reigns supreme in forensics (that Prince Jeffrey case!). There were speakers with the white wine and canapés were  forthcoming at a rate of two a minute. On the whole it’s Good for Business to embrace your Gays – if you’re an employer. Young people, even if straight, won’t work in a place that isn’t inclusive and open to all.

But still Gays are afraid and not enough is done. Nice noises made, but no plan. no implementation, no buddy scheme or gay mates.

Difficult for Poor Little Rich Gays who aren’t part of movements. Royston King, who wields millions for London, even prefers the old days of conspiracy and underground. Civil Partnership, as we know, has been a disaster in some quarters where relationships were many-dimensional.

Mostly younger Gays at the accountancy firm event – overwhelming men, some women and one transgendered. That’s not right apparently. I could have done with a little more attention. The young are ruthless and there’s always a certain feeling that looking for love is not on at such an occasion. One must be thinking of higher things.

In the afternoon Genevieve Suzy of the Magazine World (Yes, yes, yes, it was Rachel Johnson who drove Val from Chelsea Harbour to Notting Hill last week after Genevieve had summoned her to look at fabrics) took me to a wine tasting and rare crisp show in an hotel in Cavendish Square. We got quite drunk on the tastings and couldn’t carry our harvest of free samples away in anything less than two taxis. Genevieve can never have red wine or she’ll die but she loves Sauternes. There was a presentation box containing  4 half bottles at one stand  but an intense interest in sweet wines did not provoke a presentation until I had tasted all the reds. At the rare crisp stall we got a lovely box the size and shape of a pizza takeaway carton showing all the rare crisp types on offer.  Also examples of polenta cake in different flavours (salmon and cockle, leek and gooseberry etc), available in the Richmond area, poured into our bags. Of further interest was the vodka in different colours with gold bits in it (real gold). Oh, and the Japanese white wine.

Actually the work was gruelling and we’ll be able to bring these makers to the world as they never could themselves. So a certain amount of lavishment quite justified. Also we need to continue our sampling in the home environment for accuracy of description. The rape-seed oil for instance must be tried out for frying.

I quite forgot a Cork Street PV – brilliant work! Flowers Gallery downstairs. Vibrant, rich, colourful but a strange Japanese restraint. Major artist, beginning to be given proper recognition at last. Rush and buy.

Wednesday 20th March 2013

So we went to Gravetye. It’s the platonic ideal of the Country House Hotel and also, by strange magic, the source for Poor Little Rich Gay gardening because William Robinson lived there before it was an hotel.

Lady Carmichael, the Blond Multi’s mother, was already on a sofa in the hall when we arrived. She looked an absolute resident but had in fact gained 2 minutes before from her home.

You too could attach yourself to a Country House Hotel near your home in the same way. So much less expensive than taking a room.

Gravetye’s become more accessible! £35 set lunch menu. Such democracy and openness. Silent lunchers were in the dining room and a village boy with a bird. What a life for them to see all that! Country House life for all!  The Multis treated and we had fine wines and the only objection was the square plates.  Lunch was excellent. Lady Carmichael was seeking a source of complaint. One time she was at Gravetye and saw the rat-catcher in the drawing room. She phoned up later and they said it wasn’t the rat-catcher it was vermin-control. She was in Heaven over the square plates. There was a selection of coffee-rooms to choose from. I was soothed to see a polished table smeary. I felt I could face my own home if a table was smeary in a 5 star hotel.

The poor Blond Multi: I said, ‘Aunt Lavinia says you had rather a lot of her at the charity dinner.’ ‘What she means,’ the Blond flashed, ‘is she had rather a lot of me.’

We paraded in the garden then boarded for Pergola Trehair’s. She’s the Blond Multi’s sister, one of them. Her demesne is massive with stables and she offered a superb drawing room tea. Her youngest daughter, aged 4, reappeared as a Princess in gold lamé . In the middle of tea, the piglets arrived by Land Rover. Pergola, in good jumper and skirt and with figure carried her Spode cup and saucer into the yard and placed them on the trailer roof  before crawling in to drag out the screaming piggys. The Princess and her brother aged 9 were almost self-wetting with hilarity but Prince Dmitri Hersov, always with the vast Russian Steppe rolling before him, said, ‘They’re terrified.’ Once in the shed huddled together on a straw bed they were silent. Pergola’s husband, Bonas, said that after a day they would be quite all right.  They were suffering from mother and birth-home loss.

As are all Poor Little Rich Gays. Although the Mother is also to be outdone in décor and frockage, of course.

I’m nowhere nearer the old rose carpet (must be flat weave) for my stairs. Some more samples have arrived, all quite wrong. I see another visit to Chelsea Harbour looming. That place is to give itself over in its entirety to ransacking the world for my old rose flatweave carpet. Otherwise it’s massacre.  You might think me excessive but you’d be wrong.

The Cruise for after Easter isn’t quite settled yet. Val has agreed to come but we want to get off at St Tropez on the Sunday rather than go on to Monte Carlo on the Tuesday.

Now looms St Kil. Sandringham St Kil on Saturday with Joshua Baring, Patrick Lockyer and Jesus.

My Carpet Sample Agony

At Present Sisal ‘Rubens’ (On Far Right) is the Front Runner, for the Stairs Only: Landings to Stay as Seagrass

Arrived this Morning from Belgium: Hopeless and Shattering: Nowhere Near Old Rose Despite On-Line Appearance

Sunday 17th March 2013

The Photo Multi took the graph of the Blond Multi that was used on the front pages yesterday. He was seen as dashing, traditional yet new, pained yet commanding, ready to lead those ordinary members of the public wronged by banks to justice.

Last night I took Written on Skin a new perf being done at Covent Garden – not  in the same league as our own dear Harry Rollo but good.  A wheenzy bit earnest country cottage and the good life on the river bank with poetry. The night before I was last minute at The Barber of Seville.  But I can’t take Rossini.  Skin was also last minute. On Friday I was also asked to a pop-up with Bruce MacBain and Peter Acharya but couldn’t go because last minute at Seville. On Thursday I was asked last min to the London warehouse home of Angus Willis and Fergus Strachan, who’ve been ski-ing and forking £18 for a glass of brandy at Zurich Airport, but couldn’t go because Tancredo Viamare was coming here.

Next Saturday I had to turn down two dinners because I’m going to Sandringham St Kil for a sleep-over with Joshua Baring, Patrick Lockyer and Jesus (who is known to Lord Arrowby aka Sir Robert Morton).

Now Genevieve Suzy has suggested a cruise after Easter from Barcelona to Monte Carlo.

On Wednesday Robert Nevil and I took Screw’s Turn in a play version – no good. The week before I was audienced for The Audience with Helen Mirren. Well…. I’m not so sure. I think, for some scenes at least, it actually was her. She slips in to do herself as she is now. Different lines every night. Rather as Lord Arrowby will play himself as Sir R Morton during the run at the Old Vic.

The question is: what do people like The Queen or Sir Robert Morton do if their play does not happen to be on anywhere? In what form does their existence continue?

Now Prince Dmitri and I are leaving for Gravetye Manor in semi-country outfits: Sunday lunch with the Multis at Gravetye! It’s the original country house hotel – been going for years.

Gravetye Manor!

Saturday 16th March 2013

The Multis are in the papers today: in the Money section. The Blond Multi is graphed and shown. They are victims of Irish wrong.  I am also seen, in another publication, clutched by Astrid in Vienna, looking alarmed.

So it’s a big day for Poor Little Rich Gays in the papers. But, in truth, rather as the sun never set on the British Empire, so no day passes without Poor Little Rich Gays being in somewhere.

Yesterday Val was trying to get Genevieve Suzy to send us to Rome to cover the Coronation of the Pope.  He’s got in with her over upholstery and of course was driven from Chelsea Harbour to Notting Hill on Monday by a Mrs Onassis-level figure for whom blond is in the family. We thought we’d write a colour piece in Italian (I can only do infinitives) or Latin (Val only knows medieval Latin). But instead Genevieve offered a cruise from Barcelona to Monte Carlo with massive evening functions. I’m not sure Val will be able to remain upright for seven days. So there’ll be room in my state room for a plus one if it comes off. It’s from April 3rd for 6 nights.

We’ve also been making up names for the Pope: Pope Dulcie 1, Pope Evita 1, Pope Celandine V.

Next Friday, Lord Arrowby is using me for The Winslow Boy. But I don’t think this is the night he is to go on as Sir Robert Morton. I say, ‘go on as’. Ridiculous. Lord Arrowby is Sir Robert Morton, as played by Robert Donat.  DNA tests would surely reveal as much. I don’t know how they’ll do the play with him there in the audience. Wires will cross and there’ll be a fire, I shouldn’t wonder.

It’s amazing: he never uses me and can never dine because of so many weddings.

Peter Jones caught fire while I was there on Tuesday, by the way – as I wended back after my own visit to Chelsea Harbour. Absolute catastroph: smoke billowing from Bed Linens. Luckily it was a false alarm.

The old rose stair carpet quest continues: it must be flat-weave. Tancredo Viamare came round on Thursday and he’s going to see what’s available through private channels not accessible to the general public. We spent the evening otherwise picking over the agony of Poor Little Rich Gay relationships – such torment.

I was going to give my menu for the Charity dinner last Saturday:

Twice-Baked Leek and Wensleydale Soufflés with Parmesan Cream sauce and dandelion and walnut salad (quite nice: partly used Debo’s recipe from Chatsworth Cookery book which begins ‘I haven’t cooked since the War’. But messy on the plate. Untidy)

Hot Smoked Salmon, Beetroot and Blood Orange with Crème Fraîche and chive dollop ( dollop was a bit dull: not sure how well the dish sat in the menu: had to come second because of oven logistics)

Rack of Lamb with Aubergine Quarters baked with lemon, garlic and rosemary with basil and mint sauce , tomato stuffed with couscous and mint ( quite good: have a better grasp of rack of lamb. Needs 25 minutes cooking and is still rare. Sauce had little taste)

Rhubarb and Blood Orange Jelly with Blood Orange mascarpone and cream (jelly over gelantined: rubbery. Not much taste: mascarpone wouldn’t take the citrus juice and went grainy)

Apart from that, it was all marvellous.

Wednesday 13th March 2013

Really, the big news is: Who’s the new Pope? White smoke just this minute!  Val thinks it might be him. He will be Celestine V. Or maybe Al Forno 1. And, speaking of Val … who was the Mrs Onassis-level figure who, on Monday, drove Val, our most glorious as well as most lavishly refreshed Poor Little Rich Gay, from Chelsea Harbour, where he’d been looking at printed velvets with Genevieve Suzy, to Notting Hill?

But my Charity Dinner for Aids Ark was on Saturday. My first Charity Dinner in fact – that is, given by me. Only £40 required per head, to raise £300, enough to pay for one person’s HIV treatment for a year in Africa or wherever. We managed to double the amount because some were invited, such as Prince Dmitri Hersov, Frankie-Doreen May and Giles Ullerston, and still donated although unable to come. Then Peter Acharya’s great mega-business will match, making it double.

All the same, how charitable are Poor Little Rich Gays?

The Multis, Bruce MacBain, Peter Acharya, Ned Czernowski, Aunt Lavinia, Aunt Lavinia’s friend never met before, Camilla (very finished in bronze shot silk and v. up in all the names – Lewis and Wood, Missoni, Beethoven: she knew them all) and Bruce MacBain’s friend, Anna Klein, of the museum world dined. Peter said he wished to holiday in the Falkland Islands rather than the Caribbean; Bruce MacBain had been lunching with a Society lady for whom he supplied cushions and bath taps in the 80s, (before he became what he afterwards became) and was thought to be calling Aunt Lavinia an antiquity. He was actually referring to her collection of Minoan statues but nobody would believe him. Which just goes to show – if a group of 8 can make a fiction, what can a whole nation do?

Some were more right-wing than others in the party. Aunt Lavinia’s voice has ruled England for generations. We’re becoming a more divided society. I wonder where they will erect the guillotine  – in Sloane Street?

I was going to describe the food. The whole point was to describe the food – the Masterchef level to which we all aspire now.

But I must dash for the theatre where I see Screw’s Turn with Robert Nevil. I’ve got some rather old beetroot for him afterwards. A little old ladies’ supper at home after the theatre – shawls and invalid food, even if awff.

The other important news is that Lord Arrowby is go on the stage – for one night only, which one a secret, he’s to play Sir Robert Morton in the new production of The Winslow Boy at the Old Vic. We’re also to attend as members of the audience, next Friday although it hasn’t been confirmed.

Monday 11th March 2013

One of my great regrets is taking the matching set path.

If only I’d gone harlequin in early life by now I could have had a glorious miscellany of glassware and porcelain and never the worry of matching the set.

Only three cups survive of eight in my Limoges matching breakfast set in cream. Aunt Lavinia’s daughter-in-law Lavinia suggested e-Bay. In a flicker, I’d forked £100 for Spode breakfast cups in different shapes and patterns.  When they arrived, a slight snag became apparent. I hadn’t really thought through the impact of the Spode.  The remaining Limoges cream … well, it doesn’t match. There’s harlequin, and there’s harlequin, you see.   Burrowing in cupboards, I’ve found sufficient odds and ends in stock to make do for the time being. But really I’m going to have to re-side-plate and re-cereal bowl.

Will there ever be an end to it?

Otherwise, I’m looking at carpet samples. Huge agony over the new stair carpet. I broke down in a low carpet emporium in the Holloway Road this afternoon. All I want is dirty old rose, flat-weave or loop, not pile. There’s nothing for it but Chelsea Harbour. Then Val, on the telephone, had a brain wave. Tancredo Viamare is coming round on Thursday to look at samples. I’m planning an Italian primavera menu with shades of winter.

On Saturday I gave a huge Charity dinner which raised double the amount expected. More to come on my menu and handling. Really I am improving in nerves but not perfect yet.

You’ll never guess who drove Val today from Chelsea Harbour, where he’d been looking at velvets with Genevieve Suzy of the magazine world (Lewis and Wood! Lewis and Wood!)the whole way to Notting Hill.

If you do guess, you won’t believe it. I’ll say no more for the time being, but, rest assured, it might as well have been Mrs Onassis – that’s the level we’re talking about.

Val is making a start on the blue armchair, to be re-done in the steel blue/grey (fascinating colour) linen-taffeta from Lewis and Wood. He’s making a calico dummy first.

Lewis and Wood! Lewis and Wood!

The Temporary Harlequin Look: Spode Cup from eBay, Plate and Cereal Bowl Already in Stock but Not Permanent

Thursday 7th March 2013

What a year it’s been for Conrad Matheson: first of all a massive Bruce MacBain refurb with finish and silicone work faultless; then a champagne launch of same in September (also Valéry’s 40th birthday); then a New Year’s Eve party of outstanding brilliance before the last tier, the absolute Godhead, not veiled but face to face – his 50th anniversary of birth in a private room at the St John Restaurant.

What a happy occasion this was! 18 dined. Intimate. Not gooey, of course. That wouldn’t be the Poor Little Rich Gay way. But a bracing warmth for one who is hot and just about the least catty of the Poor Little Rich Gays. In fact not catty at all. But who fights and fights for decor, rare reading and funding to fight disease.

The guests were a scatter of diamonds, hard to catch. Rufus Pitman, in a kind of Edwardian cycling outfit as envisioned by both Jean-Paul Gaultier and Vivienne Westwood, and Reggie Cresswell, the internationally-known Ghanaian ceramicist, were one minute sitting next to me: ‘Diana Athill,’ they cried, ‘Ghastly!’ Then they were gone. That was after the whole crab to be dismantled with mayo and pork cheek with unknown vegetable, possibly that curly thing they eat in Rome in the Spring but it can’t have been. St John only do English.

Mainly I had the enormous pleasure of Lord Arrowby, my former part-time love interest. I tried megaphoning (as it were) to him at the other end of the table: ‘How’s your mother?’ ‘How’s your brother abroad?’ He couldn’t hear a thing and was absolutely screaming at the nonsense of it. Down he came to my end of the table, in a bright blue jacket by Reiss and new shirt, black with Mondrian squares all over it (he usually buys a shirt on a Saturday, the more party-like the better ). His shoes were by Dries, one of his favourite houses. Tan and cream, incredibly controversial, exaggerated and fabulous. And there he stayed – at my end of the table. There was a new young man who works in the disease world with Conrad – they campaign and lobby – by whom we were all mesmerised, of course. No a silly young man, you understand. Very principled, by the looks of it. Earlier, in the vestibule, over the oysters, radish and carrot nibbles, I’d said to Lord A, or rather got half way through saying, ‘Won’t they make you ill?’ but he interrupted, ‘Will they make me randy?’ I couldn’t believe it. Anyway, over the mains of either pheasant pie or sea bass (or both), he imitated himself as a small, very coming boy singing a camp song in its entirety (with hands as well) while on a French exchange.

All this despite waking at 2 from a nasty dream that they didn’t want him stalking the highest corridors of power any more. Nonsense of course.

The puddings were a meringue cake  and a trifle of infinite creaminess – I couldn’t resist spooning to excess. Lord Arrowby was keen too.

Sunday 3rd March 2013

On Wednesday the Multis gave a dinner for Marcus Cargill, England’s leading clockmender, whose knees are playing up after skiing and Rupert Aubrey and the Bond Dealer who confessed to sometimes not changing the sheets between visitors at their Hove second home. On the whole they’re buckling under the strain of property. I begged the Bond Dealer to save the banks.

On Thursday I travelled by official car (Xenon driving lights)with Aunt Lavinia to Oxfordshire for a private visit to a Stately with a Gainsborough and rare snowdrops. We lunched. In the evening I was with Virgil Grayson who’s been unwell. We dined.

Friday was merely Miroslav re-decorating the hallway and my epic journey by car to Papers and Paints Fulham to fetch more hallway paint taking in a surprise visit with Laura Malcolm and Matt Driver. We lunched. Matt is now at home, finding the days most agreeable and sauntering without the horror of 9 to 5, or 9 to 8 as it was in his case with 1st Class to Peking and a salary exceeding the appalling Robin Smallmeal’s, Head of Landfill in this country or whatever. Still Matt has no patience with Miroslav’s erratic ways such as begging for random sums of money to save his family rather than because he’s finished the tiling. Bruno-France Bruno (always a Picasso in the bedroom, but whose? Our premiere mystery Poor Little Rich Gay) texted me last weekend: ‘I want this man out of life.’ He’s had Miroslav in for a massive refurb. Laura and I are inclined to feel that if you’re middle class (and Poor Little Rich Gay) and want your home tweeked and peaked to unutterable perfection at minimum cost then Miroslav is your fate. With careful management he can be endured.

And his silicone work has improved.

Silicone, I was thinking not so long ago, is the most terrible thing, a reminder of our fallen state and endless yearning for Heaven. I mean, how do you resolve the edges? Your marvellous marble slabs or granite work tops are wiped out just like that by crumby silicone work. And the ghastly smeary stuff is terribly difficult to manipulate and even when rightly done deteriorates.

The Nobel Prize surely for someone who could invent a durable substitute with which any fool could achieve perfection.

Yesterday – oh wonder! – was Conrad Matheson’s 50th Birthday at St John’s Restaurant – of which more later. Oh, so much to tell! Lord Arrowby was there. He used to be my part-time love interest. He couldn’t have been more divine.

Then today the Multis gave a glorious Spring lunch – is there anything to beat the fierce March sunlight, cold but glaring, renewal unstoppable, as it pours into a marble-lined penthouse filled with flowers and art works re-born in the light? Their Russian paintings of bathers were entrancing as never before, although bought many years ago for a song. The Photo Multi is fuming about the Irish Bank which has doubled interest rates without warning. Private contacts are putting him straight through to the top at the FSA. This is to do with their Empire of flats on which the sun never sets (so to speak).

A Rare Snowdrop

A Rare Snowdrop

Rare Snowdrop with Ears

Have You Ever Seen Such Snowdrops?

Hellebore Eric Smithii