Friday 7th September 2012

At the merest mention of the Paralympics I well up and as for the Closing Ceremony to come…

On Tuesday morning I bathed in the Mediterranean for the last time this year, then mounted the air for London to begin the Autumn Season which is to take place mainly in New York (oh yes! big news!)

Such a lovely visit to Virgil Grayson’s and Cedric Partridge’s… Cedric as deliciously up to no good as always, very full of the Duke (or whoever)who is selling the Poussin, Grayson now a God-like figure, undoubtedly the Guru of the architectural branch of the Poor Little Rich Gays – which is a big branch. He urged me to eat a strange pink fruit growing on a thorny bush in his garden where absolutely no bougainvillea is allowed. You obey of course and would willingly die. There was trouble about an asparagus fern. The gardener got the wrong kind, the one liked by florists.

Virgil’s garden is a miracle. Let the graphs speak for themselves. Every plant of utmost distinction, the ensemble of grey, green and silver with the tiniest touches of colour so restful and fascinating.

Then there were the new people, divine,although I’ve know Archie Armitage for years, through Bruce MacBain, my  private architect. Archie’s own buildings are very fine but to me he was mainly a muscle God. Can you imagine the thrill of zipping him into his wet suit? Now I find he likes The Four Last Songs, must have the Jessie Norman recording, and reads brainy books! Perhaps we should have an opera evening! Fabien-Boris Claude helped me with my computer.  He reached out  – great streak of kindness but not drippy, drippy, nice-y, nice-y which Poor Little Rich Gays can’t bear. Quite formidable, I should say, and argumentative. Got banned from Bible Studies in childhood. Always addresses Archie as Archibald.

Loved them all.

The Wrong Kind of Asparagus Fern: Virgil Grayson’s Med-Side Garden at the Côte

Rare Rain Lily: Virgil Grayson’s Med-side Garden at the Côte

The Right Kind of Asparagus Fern: Virgil Grayson’s Med-side Garden at the Côte

Rare Pinus in Virgil Grayson’s Med-side Garden at the Côte

Sea Squirrels: An Elegant Touch of Colour in Virgil Grayson’s Med-side Garden at the Côte

What Limbs! Exceptional Arbutus in Virgil Grayson’s Garden at the Côte

The Actual Med! Virgil Grayson’s Garden on the Côte d’Azur

Fabien-Boris Claude and Archie Armitage Equipped for Cycling to St Tropez and Elsewhere

Fabien-Boris Claude Prepares to Cycle to St Tropez

Supremely Competent Archie Armitage Calling to Tardy Fabien-Boris Claude: It’s Time to Board for St Tropez

Virgil Grayson Shows How to Divide Three Tarte au Citron between Five People

Monday 4th September 2012

We’re a daring mix at the Côte, where I continue at Virgil Grayson’s Med-side self-architected haven with grey and green garden of great rarity. He’s a household name. Cedric Partridge, who usually has a Rembrandt beside him if flying (from being in the museum world) has just come back from Aix and said I went to quite the wrong butcher.

I’m doing a tray-bake for dinner this evening, described by Nigel (Slater) as entirely without elegance. It’s veg with lamb hunks thrown in.

Archie Armitage already swam half way to Africa this morning. Then he skimmed in a ‘Lazor’ dinghy to the nudist island in the afternoon. It’s on the horizon. Such was the wind his entire rock-solid form was the only force against the elements. In fact, Fabien-Boris Claude did not go with him. But yesterday they both appeared in very frank professional lycra for St Tropez by cycle. They had brought their machines with them in special cases by air from London. Archie offered me a ride in the dingy but I feared the excitement and then was miffed when I saw him approaching the nudists who in the end he never reached so was never nude.

Cedric Partridge said it was wrong to say ‘nude’. It should be either ‘in the nude’ or ‘naked’. I said, ‘Is Nude a colour?’

After lunch Fabien-Claude  had an argument with Jean-Louise, Virgil’s sister, who arrived last night with her husband from Canada’s wilds via hiking in the Alps and hitchhiking. The argument was about the body and its exercise. Fabien-Claude said the core is crucial but Jean-Louise said there is no core. That raged for an hour. Over lunch, which Cedric said was filthy, although he wasn’t at it, he was in Aix,we talked about slavery.

Archie is ex-Public school and intensely outdoor. He has undertaken an Iron Man triathlon. But he won’t have one of the new Landrovers nor an Audi Q4 on grounds of design. ‘These architects,’ Fabien-Boris declared. They live in a glorious self-architect-designed home in London’s Camberwell and frequently fly out. Archie likes Rosenkavalier and Jessie Norman.

Fabien-Boris once drove Jessie Norman on St Lucia. Which is interesting because Aunt Lavinia’s neighbour in London also drove her but in London.

Cedric said that tinned tuna was quite impossible and that I’d got the Salad Niçoise for lunch wrong. Where were the capers and gherkins and potatoes? I said Potatoes really were not part of any true Niçoise. I did put my foot down.

Jean-Louise was explaining about a mousse attack or an elk. Also a cougar. Another row erupted between Fabien-Boris and Jean-Louise about a magnetic mat with rejuvenating qualities which they both enjoyed. Jean-Louise also mentioned, battling in the galley kitchen, that she preferred drawers with handles. But handles are out because of the look.

Cedric came over to inspect the lamb tray bake on one of its outings from the oven and said if the worst came to the worst he could have the ham which we had failed to have for lunch, having instead the deeply wrong tuna. Later, when I took the bake out of the oven finally and said it could come to no further harm, he remarked that it was already ruined. I said, Why not a new TV prog in which he, Cedric, was implanted in a celebrity chef kitchen? How long before he could wind up to murder?

We had a reduced 1st course because the avos had mostly gone off. I said, ‘You can imagine the prawns.’ But in the event it was exquisite. Just a speck of avo with lemon.

I forgot to mention that, coming back from shopping, the odd pointy door of Archie’s hired Alpha Romeo somehow marked my Prada white shirt bought only the other day in Tuscany at the Prada factory shop. I did think: Archie would never get marked by a car door like that. He’d never miss a flight or scrape a vehicle or send out the wrong architectural drawing.

Thankfully Cedric took to the lamb tray bake.

Virgin Grayson’s Storm View

Great Lowering at the Côte

Such a Scape Laid On

Archie Armitage Yachting

Saturday 1st September 2012

Actually I’m at the Côte, at Virgil Grayson’s Med-side, self-architect designed and gardened rare, rare enclave. I’ve not left the compound since Friday. The house is the finest, lightest casing of white and grey against a vast panorama of sea, sky and rocks. There’s been much drama: a full Mistral and then storms. From the open-plan living area you can see for 20 miles: absolute ringside seats. Two muscle men are here who this morning cycled to St Tropez and back in lycra. 60 kilometre round trip.

But on Tuesday I was stained in the Albert Hall. A mottling developed on the thighs of my new Helmut Lang slacks in a bone shade in the course of the day. Unbearable because I’ve bonded with them, they’re so tiny. But they’re faulty. Then underway for the Hall, what do I find but two actual marks, in addition.

Prince Dmitri Hersov and I took Figaro in the Glyndebourne Prom. The Prince was in the mood of the great rolling Steppe of his never-seen homeland. He said that money corrupts.Oh dear! Where does that leave Poor Little Rich Gays? Things are looking grim at the Accountancy firm. But at least his sister, Princes Irina, who, with her neighbours – all greatnesses, as it happens – suffered catastrophic parapet collapse in May, faces a manageable bill for repair.

Earlier that day, the Gay Mother said, ‘That’s not Prada.’  ‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s Zara.’ A white shirt with black collar and cuffs, teamed with those bone slacks.  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ ‘Oh nothing,’ the Gay Mother said hurriedly.

Rather odd, because the Christmas before last she said, ‘Is that Prada?’ As it happens it was, a plum knit.  Without pausing she said,  ‘St Francis of Assisi gave away all his clothes.’

Thursday 30th August 2012

Yes, greatly moved. Although initially afflicted: ‘Heavens, they haven’t even got to B!’ But when Handel was sung and Paralympians were flying on wires through the air.. so calm, dignified, thoughtful and affirming. I loved the Non-Para Opening, but this was in another league, radiant with quality and intelligence. It was all wonderfully suggestive, multi-dimensional, open-ended, inconclusive. No trite yuck about disabled people being just the same as everyone else and not really disabled at all. The huge eye in the early part of the ceremony was an ambiguous symbol. What exactly might it see?  There was even, when Ian Dury’s Spasticus Autisticus was sung and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights paraded, an angry, rebellious element which somehow did not jar with the otherwise calm celebration of  objective inquiry, the inner life of the mind, the limitless possibilities of human thought,  which, as science and invention, continue to produce more and more astonishing possibilities for disabled people, while, as a cast of mind or way of living, quite free us from any idea of disability at all, in others and in ourselves.

But even this is to make it too straightforward.  The flame was brought into the stadium by an ex-marine on a high wire from 350 feet above.  He had no legs and the fabric of his shorts flapped without shame where they had been or might have been. It was a moment of terror and beauty.  We must look and not flinch and not lie, yet look beyond. This was the ceremony’s stern and difficult requirement.

Monday 27th August 2012

So, Giles Coren, you’ve formed a view of Tuscany, have you? (See The Times, 25th August 2012)

What is Tuscany? What is it now? What was it then? What hope for Tuscany? Has money wiped it out?

What did Anthony Mottram and I seek in Tuscany in 1976, when we sprang straight from school into Tuscany?  We took  the Molino di Castagnoli for 3 weeks that July at £40 a week.  It was advertised in The Times. The chairs were cut out from barrels. That summer there was a famous drought in England, but in Italy a low Scotch mist and floods. A stream opened up in the Tuscan kitchen and the water supply was washed away. In that kitchen, the table top was marble, as were the rolling pin and the pestle and mortar. We were in there, self-making pasta for lasagne, and the omelette cake, never repeated since. The bedsteads were brass and old, the woods and rural isolation, the little walled vegetable garden where we cut the round pale green courgettes – all were of the very best, not an ugly note. At 4 in the morning we would set off from the Molino to walk the 10 or so kilometres to Gaiole in Chianti for the bus to Siena, Florence or San Gimmini-whiny.

We hadn’t the first idea what we’d find there but I suppose we knew it would all be absolutely top drawer – the art and architecture. The clothes in Italy in those days! Prada hadn’t yet been invented but the simplest person in the street would have a cardy of supreme lamb’s wool.  The men’s trousers! The hair! The looks of the men!

Tuscany was drenched, drenched from floor to ceiling, from head to toe, in quality. Nothing but the best.

As Poor Little Rich Gays how could we not home in?

Later we had a Cortona phase, in a borrowed house the daughter of which rose to great heights in novel-writing. Dear Cortona – quite unspoiled then. That was the other thing – no gentrification, no arse and Earl’s Court and money driving through.

For the rest of the 80s we were away from Tuscany, mainly in the Central and Eastern of Europe, opening up that section to new possibilities.

Not until 1994, was the modern Tuscan era inaugurated for Poor Little Rich Gays. Anthony Mottram rose in Prague through ‘consultancy’ to the level of Tuscan villa with swimming pool. By that time, they were thousands a week.

So Il Poggino was taken. I’ve more to tell you about Il Pogg. Yes, I’ve been back, back to Manderley.

In the late 90s and early 00s, Robin Smallmeal, loathed, Head of Landfill in this country or whatever, nearly wrecked Tuscany with a succession of rock-bottom villas and trips to awful, fancy restaurants. Poor Smallmeal carries the burden of his money whereever he goes. Thank God I fell out with him and the lachrymose ‘partner’ with a vicious streak, Simon Limpney: they met in Newport Pagnell High Street, as Limpney lay weeping outside the solicitors’ offices where it had been made clear Massivebury must go. Smallmeal happened by in his Bentley, on his way to or from a landfill site,  and made it all all right.

I fell into despair of Tuscany. Where was the true Tuscany of superb quality?

Finally we come to the Multi villa epoch of recent years. The villas have gone up and up in cost and scale. Three years’ ago I feared that the Multis would insist on waiters with white coats and gold braid and everything would be Michelin 3 forks.

But no, the Multis have embraced the true Tuscany. They actually preferred the first villa of their five-week spell (they’re still out now). The second the Blond Multi said was equivalent to a Guildford 4 bedroom. The first was more rustic.

And the restaurants! Giles Coren, you are wrong!  The old spirit of Tuscany lives on. Suddenly springing up are restaurants, simple trattorias, run by eccentrics, not for money but for love of food, just giving a little twist to the traditional Tuscan fare, nothing fancy, no nonsense with coulis.

So,Giles Coren, you’d better re-Tuscany at once! Go to Il Papavero at Barbischio. Try the pici (that’s the thick ‘spaghetti’ of Tuscany)  with fried breadcrumbs, a touch of chilli, roasted cherry tomatoes and basil. Take Canto del Maggio at Terranuova, near Montevarchi – outstanding peposo. That’s the beef stew with peppers you depise. Or Il Celliere at Castagnoli (the same Castagnoli as the Molino was of) where they’ve created a mascapone pasta.

Also exceptional are: Il 4 Leone at Florence; the restaurant at Volpaia; osteria de Montegonzi (where Cameron took his last supper before regaining for the riots last year: we’ve heard much about it here. Poor Little Rich Gays sat in his seat)

All absolutely delightful. Yes, Tuscany lives on, not swamped by money, but re-born and glorious with new selfless creative energy.

Il Canto del Maggio, Taken by Us for Ferragosto: It’s a Ristorante

This Restaurant Taken by Us for Ferragosto

Sunday 26th August 2012

Shattered. The Gay Mother, 88, and I didn’t get back from the Big House until 1.30 a.m. Then up again at 7 for Church. The Cousins, or rather their off-spring, have taken to working in branches of Krisy Kreme in the outer London suburbs. The catalogue of customer idiocies was long. Really the entire evening  might have been some production as seen on ITV3.

The Gay Mother’s been looking at inventories. That Worcester tea service on the mantelpiece in the dining room of the Big House does belong to her. As I’ve always thought. But the little table that was bequeathed to the Gay Granny by Ethel and Winnie Johnson doesn’t.

The Gay Mother’s hydrangeas are absolutely outstanding. Utterly rare and uncommon. I’ll graph and show. Come back to view.

Her whole garden a triumph. We’ll have a gardening issue soon. She’s grown a black French bean.

What about Prince Harry? Poor Little Rich Gays here and throughout the world are outraged by the lack of cock. He might have to re-shoot. As it happens, the suggestion of sexual prowess has always been a crucial part of Royalty’s sway, backed up by jewellery. Her Majesty’s frock for the Coronation was as much a sew-in as Marilyn’s to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to President ‘Fucker’ Kennedy.

So this nude Harry is perfect and absolutely in the line of Royal duty.

Saturday 25th August 2012

On Tuesday in Tuscany Laura Malcolm, in a radical and welcome departure from the tradition of only Tuscan or at least Italian food while villa-ing in Tuscany,  served an entire Norman dinner bought down by car from that place where she has a summer home.

Her husband, Matt Driver, whose salary exceeds loathed Robin Smallmeal’s (head of landfill in this country or whatever, massive enemy and traitor to the Poor Little Rich Gay cause), was much preoccupied with trying to steal a Tuscan roof tile to match another in his Fulham garden deployed as a wall light. He also discoursed at some length about ironing, an unusual subject for one in the top 0.0002% of salary. The points of the collar must not be ironed at all, not even with a pressing cloth, if glazing and scoring are to be avoided.

At the end of the excellent repast, the Blond Multi fetched, from the kitchen, my private Global knives, brought out because villa knives are always blunt,  and in an ‘extinguishing of the Flame’ ceremony, handed them back to me. I sang the National Anthem for the last time and, the following morning, mounted the air for London.

After 16 glorious days in Tuscany, as the Photo Multi pointed out, a full Olympic span, exactly the same number of days as an Olympics, I was heartened by the state of Tuscany, although one goal, to make the omelette cake last made at the Molino di Castagnoli in 1976, was not achieved.

Prince Dmitri Hersov, the most saintly of the Poor Little Rich Gays (although he bought some shoes at the Prada Factory Shop and has taken office wear right to the edge and kept it there for 25 years), accompanied me in the car as far as Siena. He always looks out for my nerves. I then forged on alone for my homeland.

I want to meditate on Tuscany. What is it and why? I veered there unthinking as soon as released from school in 1976. How is it now? Is it wrecked by money? Poor Little Rich Gays crave money but fear it will smooth out, make uniform… Poor Little Rich Gays crave the real thing although there must be a good bathroom.

But Castello di Spaltenna, an hotel  above Gaiole, we quite rejected – uniformed staff, table-cloths to the ground, artificial gardens with Americans on sun-loungers. Oh no! We couldn’t take it. Not the real Tuscany. I was there before with Robin Smallmeal, some 7 years ago. Loathed Robin Smallmeal, who carries the burden of money wherever he goes. He wants two forks in the Michelin Guide, waiters in white jackets with gold braid on the shoulder. I was dragged by the Smallmeal villa party to dinner at this hotel, full then of cowed honeymoon couples. My main was  plain veal and lamb’s lettuce, the most boring main ever known.

I’ve more to say. So rich and profound.

Come back later for more on Tuscany’s present state.

The EU, by the way. We had a row about the EU. I must bring that in soon. My politics, put simply, are me, me, me but don’t forget the poor.

Not the Real Tuscany: Castello di Spaltenna, Where Once We Dined with Loathed Robin Smallmeal, Who Had No Idea

Gloomy Dining Room of Castello di Spaltenna

Prince Dmitri Hersov: Prada Factory Shop Shoe Purchase: Mod-Rocker Style, a Must for the Accountancy Firm

Equivalent of a Guilford 4 Bedroom, the Blond Multi Said: the Multis’ Second Tuscan Villa this Year, for Their Final Two-Week Phase

Sad Farewell Shot of Siena through Evening Haze, Taken From Near the Villa

Tuesday 21st August 2012

Mainly I saw the heights of Tuscan society heaving into view. I thought we could make a break-through. In the Montevarchi cafe where Cameron coffee-ed last year and didn’t tip the waitress, the Photo Multi was suddenly talking to an unknown highly blonde lady from America. That was last week, at the same time as the mozzarella water incident.  This woman, with a thin cloth covering and wedges, was saying that she’d met a handsome Italian wine-maker and stayed on.

After that we were gagging for a tasting.

So some days later we were in her tasting room. ‘This is where it all began,’ she purred. ‘Six years ago I came in here for a tasting, fell in love and began a new life.’ ‘It’s a book,’ said Bepe, her handsome wine-maker, producing the very thing. ‘How to Live Your Dreams and Get What you Want.’ Self-published.

Pearl-Ann is a life-coach, a specialist in life reinvention and empty-nest syndrome.  In mid-life she decided on a full life-rethink after affliction and tragedy and corporate wretchedness. Why not whirl to Tuscany, live simply and meet a handsome wine-maker with family vineyard? Then, in winter, return to the US and cater dinners on a paying basis to rich people in their homes in places such as Aspen at which Bepe’s wines are offered. Pearl-Ann’s drive now is to get Bepe’s wines ‘out there.’

There were graphs around the room of these occasions: appalling decor. One tycoon v. keen on big game hunting, so bison on walls etc.  Bepe himself featured in some of the graphs looking a little like Elvis Presley in the latter stages. Real life, luckily,was an improvement.

Pearl-Ann! I mustn’t sneer. I don’t think she quite realised she treads a path trodden by many Americans before. All the same, an adventuress, to be admired. How many would launch out and re-invent on that scale? There’s a Poor Little Rich Gay aspect, of course. Poor Little Rich Gays shape if not wrench the life, as you know. I was thinking Pearl-Ann was rather going round in circles, though. Attempting to escape American corporate existence she’d ended up bringing it with her – all the thrust to promote Bepe’s wines and the somewhat stage-managed presentation of her ‘story’ which just a touch turned it into sales talk to further boost the Vin Santo.

God knows Poor Little Rich Gays are driven. Look at the Blond Multi – can’t bear not to be doing an exam when not generating a business to be sold for millions. Must hack at his Italian verbs.

But there was something just a wheeny bit grim about Pearl-Ann.

Bepe with his Grandfather’s Vin Santo 1958

Bepe’s Grandfather’s Vin Santo from 1958

Children’s Ice Creams in Shop at Montegonzi: Shopkeeper Would Not Allow the Multis to Buy

A Hulk Neutralised as a Lamp at Le Lappe, Montegonzi, Which is in Winter a Hotel and in Summer to be Booked Whole by a Gruppa

Saturday 18th August 2012

Never call Poor Little Rich Gays cruel or superficial.

Whatever may appear to the contrary.

This morning we were wrenched from the old villa, enjoyed by the Multis for three years in a row, owing to a German booking.  By the staff there, we were loved, and they loved us.

Even so, as the Blond Multi commented so poignantly this morning, the ruthlessness with which one is erased from a villa is disturbing.  The loved staff set about scouring and stripping directly after breakfast. But at lunch, the Blond said he had no thoughts, had nothing to say. I reminded him that, in addition, when the road changed from tarmac-ed to untarmac-ed (what they call here a ‘white road’) he had quipped, from the front seat of the hired convertible, ‘We’re going off-piste.’

The Blond Multi is a personage of exceptional human quality.

So we bade a tearful farewell to the old villa and the Blond Multi handed the Romanian Husband/HandyMan his iPhone so the whole thing could be filmed, then the phone handed back into the departing car. Beforehand we had posed with the Romanian villa Wife/maid and both their children, brought out from the lodge, then hugged them all.

Arriving at the new villa, the Multis had the gardener out of the kitchen for talking and said no tip because he didn’t help with the luggage. The maid here is called Valrhona, except it’s Vabona. She’s Albanian. Captain Blond Multi regaled her at some length in his new Italian with full English accent with how he could hear a dog barking nearby and was not pleased.

With Poor Little Rich Gays the hierarchy is never more absolute. Lying by the new villa pool, the Blond groaned, ‘I often complain about servizio.’ Yet, at the same time,  ranking is never more utterly broken down, the staff never more chatted to, Facebooked, fascinated and with eyes-out-on stalks.

Come back tomorrow! We’re getting more and more profound. I’ve got so much to tell. About Pearl-Ann, whose wines we tasted. And the row about the EU. And Tuscany over the years, all the villas we have known. I’m going to do that as well.

We love the new villa, by the way. Or at least I do. The Multis think it too finished and bourgeois, would you believe. They prefer  the roughness and rustic of the old villa.

It just goes to show – you never know what people will do or say next.

What’s more we’re, unexpectedly, having the welcome dinner service and Laura Malcolm and Matt Driver are about to gain by own car.

There is a comfort in money.

Drawing Room of the New Villa

The Multis’ Bathroom in the New Villa

Miraculous, Cantilevered Bucket Lav in New Villa

Friday 17th August 2012

I turned down Breakfast TV yet again this afternoon. I say that to sound important. I can’t: I’m in Tuscany with the Multis and Prince Dmitri Hersov of the accountancy firm, the most saintly of the Poor Little Rich Gays, four of us in a villa for 16. Tomorrow 17 Germans arrive.

It’s a huge day for us tomorrow. We change villas. We’re going to Pianella. Captain Blond Multi is worried: we love this villa. The staff here engage in what the Photo Multi calls ‘aggressive baking’.  Offerings of cake are left on the kitchen table, self-baked by the Romanian maid in her lodge at the park gates. We love the staff. They love us. We’re all friends on Facebook. But we are trying to lose weight.

It’s the Poor Little Rich Gay way: staff are never so pitched up, so intensely called upon, so bewildered and so entertained as when Gays are in residence. There’s a whole room here of the Multis’ wine and luggage shopping the like of which can never have been seen.

But this new villa – there’s no maid to do the breakfast nor any intention of CV Travel, the villa company, to find one.

The Blond Multi fears the worst.

What if we don’t like the new villa?

What if we don’t like the new villa?

In fact  the Blond Multi’s been on the phone about next year’s villa, both this one and one in Corfu, where Cameron stayed.

Meanwhile, there’s no denying it: the Multis went twice to the Prada Factory Shop, yesterday and again today. The Blond Multi was bucking and intensely masculine to depart for the outlet store this morning. Yesterday he was in no mood to buy but overnight he became hot for purchase.

Shoes, shoes, shoes … and bags.

He had to get in this morning before the bus parties of Japanese gained from Florence. And did. And bought.

This afternoon we took a wine-tasting with Pearl-Ann and Bepe. We met Pearl-Ann last week in the Montevarchi cafe where Cameron coffee-ed.  Entirely chance encounter. She explained at once that she’d come to Italy six years ago from Florida, fallen in love with a handsome wine-maker and never looked back.

There’s also been a bit of a row about the EU.

But no time for that now. Come back later for more!

The Multis’ Shoe Haul from Prada Factory Shop: Prada Factory Shop Has Never Been So Rich: Rush, Rush, Rush to it

White Gum-Boot Style Boot from Prada Factory Shop, Montevarchi: Property of the Blond Multi

A Novel Two-Tone Shoe Taken by the Photo Multi at Prada Factory Shop, Montevarchi

A Prada Shoe Acquired by the Blond Multi Recalling the Great Days of British Airways

Hangbag Bought by the Photo Multi for HIs Mother