Thursday 26th July 2012

I do love to see blue flashing lights in the distance of a street vista because they might be flashing that Royalty are on the cusp, about to pass.

This morning, in golden morning light, crowds were gathered and spilling onto the street until policeman on motorbikes, some preposterous so porcine, pushed them back. Then a motley of vans and mini-buses proclaiming the sponsors such as Lloyds Bank (pre-War bus) and equipped with somewhat half-hearted drum majorettes, rolled by.  There was music and a ramshackle feeling of a village fete or local sports club parade. Ordinary members of the public, on bicycles, keen to get to work perhaps, had joined the procession.  After that nothing. The crowd spilled all over the road again until eventually more vehicles, more blue flashing lights and, yes! there it was – a male figure in white, possibly drawn from the ballet world,  bearing the brassy torch, a fiery orange flame, quite prominent, quite a blaze, gone in seconds.

The Olympic Torch About to Appear: Classic English Summer Morning

The Olympic Torch Procession: the Sponsors' Floats and Cheerleaders

Olympic Torch Procession: Cheerleaders

Small Bicycle in the Olympic Torch Procession: Gloriously Pointless

At Last the Torch Appears: London This Morning

The Torch Passes on Its Way: London this Morning

The Olympic Torch Passes on Its Way

Monday 23rd July 2012

Thrilled, but like the Queen gasping for Balmoral – or the Poor Little Rich Gay equivalent, Tuscany.

The Multis board on Saturday for six weeks. I follow the next Saturday. The Blond Multi, did I mention, in retirement has been having intensive lessons in Italian but won’t speak it. Probably never will.

Oh the radiant weather – a bath of pleasure. The home at last emerging from the gooey murk of the monsoon.

Recent engagements have included: the Photo Multi’s hairdresser’s 25th anniversary party, Otello at the Garden (the Multis loved it, were so moved, as were I and Prince Dmitri Hersov) Onegin at Holland Park Opera (with Aunt Zugine, named after a Swiss canton), Les Troyens and Barenboim conducting Beethoven and Boulez at the Proms, a visit to Connor Cadaux who is suddenly in love  (such a surprise after so many adventures) with a superb flashing Sicilian cavalry officer type, as well as the Multis’ home concert followed by urban farm dinner.

Aunt Zug’s outing might appear the least Poor Little Rich Gay. All women without men. Aunt Zug’s daughter, Cousin Caroline, explains the plots of many operas. But, scratch beneath the surface, in the party were the former Ambassador to the Honduras (Alan Rusbridger of the Guardian in her village, radiant gossip re: the Duke of Edinburgh and Princess Anne) and a big-time City committee lady who’d been at Mansion House and met the Queen after the St Paul’s Jubilee service. Said that even private guests at that level were taking pictures with their mobile phones. This lady also knows Royston King, my friend who is somehow in charge of millions of lottery money to be given to heritage projects.

At home the stains have been awful. Just everywhere. Two white items, taken out of their packets from the cleaners, were found by cleaning to have been newly stained. I applied bleach to one with a Q-tip and got the blot out but created a tide-mark. Then there’s been the tragedy of my new white jacket with satin cowl collar (very crooner) that got wet and marked. It came back from Jeeves of Belgravia (the only hope in extremis: the highest cleaner in the land) more or less restored. I was comforted by the nice Greek-Cypriot lady in the shop whose new dog has died after only two weeks’ of possession, from a chicken bone. She said the remaining marks were negligible and would come out at the next cleaning.

With Cyprus and her dog passed, she could offer some perspective to a wracked Poor Little Rich Gay.

At the least the blue mark on the dodgy satin collar, which was there from the shop, came out.

So I’ll wear that jacket for Glyndebourne with the Gay Mother on Saturday.

At the Photo Multi’s hairdresser’s 25th anniversary party (25 years of Multi hair) we surely spotted Freddie Mercury among the Kodak parade of clients on the wall.

Rufus Pitman, our novelist and critic and columnist,  kindly took me to the Barenboim prom. As a boy, he said, he would have crossed the country to hear the Boulez (I think  called ‘Drift’ but in French). It was trills in different combinations. The whole idea was to evade definition as to mood, emotion expressed, category of piece, whether beginning, ending or in the middle, for 45 minutes. It was a piece of music. That was all that could be said. ‘Awfully well played,’ I said, recalling the Gay Grandmother, who always said, ‘Awfully clever,’ of anything modern. ‘Yes, but what an abominable waste of everyone’s time,’ said Rufus. We agreed that we’ve not a ounce of patience anymore. It turns out that Rufus is involved with vetting for M15, is asked regularly to assess a person’s loyalty to their country. This is in addition to his intense interest in niche perfumes. Outside the Albert Hall, he did a piece to camera, as did I, with Frankie-Doreen May, also present for Les Troyens, yesterday. Amateur web-site-ists lurk outside the Hall and pounce. Such a good idea to give a feeling of importance to ordinary members of the public.

But did they realise, with Rufus, who they’d got?

The Multis’ home-concert was enchanting. They have a grand in their lounge area anyway. The Blond Multi once had ideas of doing Grade 1. Their pianist was a fiery Argentinian, really very good, no mistakes and very distinctive style of Chopin. It was she whom Bruce MacBain flirted with at the Blond Multi’s 50th Birthday at La Pont, while, entirely coincidentally, her husband (baby-faced but huge banker, so ideal) was being groomed for a threesome by Marcus Cargill and Hamish McCory at another table.

At the Urban  Farm dinner afterwards, I sat next to Purbeck Crowhurst, the artist of owls, foxes and strange nocturnal events. Unfortunately, owing to my own debility, I could not understand a word he said. Laura Malcolm, whose husband, Matt Driver, was away spending his massive redundancy money, had a tricky neighbour with a certain cruel flash who regaled with tales of his early European adventures, getting absolutely rat-arsed, paralytic, smashed, plastered and blasted by lakes with birds. But Laura had him harnessed and tightly reined in  and trotting along nicely. ‘I liked him, ‘ she said.

Friday 20th July 2012

No, not that Priory. These Poor Little Rich Gays took a Priory in Sussex for the weekend.

Landmark Trust – do you know it? V. superior.

Prince Dmitri Hersov, of the Accountancy Firm, and I went down by train last Saturday because we’d got to be back for the My Fair Lady prom. Lucky to have him with me, an accountant at the highest level, because you needed to be able to count the carriages to avoid being hived off to Littlehampton. The train divided at Haywards Heath (more 1st class season tickets from here than any other station). If you couldn’t count which carriage you were in, you’d be in danger of Littlehampton.

So, Marcus Cargill, England’s leading clock mender (oh yes, at the Lily Safra level) and Hamish McCory took this Priory with these new Poor Little Rich Gays for the weekend, although they all live just a few miles away. Their publican and partner were also of the party.

The Priory’s got its own private ruins and is nestled in a crook of the Downs.

East Sussex – near Glyndebourne. One of the best counties of England for residence. You can be enclosed but not hemmed in. There’s always a view. Great Dixter’s the same. To me, this is England.

The Multis came down by car. They too had to be back for a Gala that evening at Covent Garden given by Trenton’s gallery, which they support.

We were so refreshed and soothed after London engagements. Lord Arrowby’s party had been only the night before, after which I was barely standing. It was beamy,  this Priory, but not nooky, in fact spacious, with Georgian elements. We paraded round, planning improvements, especially extra bathrooms, before a most comforting lunch with fine wines.

Now these new Poor Little Rich Gays. One of them is actually the Bond Dealer who has been briefing me privately about the Libor Rate scandal. This was not the first time I’ve met them. But suddenly they’re on board! So thrilled with them. They do go to pubs and are not so utterly rarified as some Poor Little Rich Gays. The other, Rupert Aubrey, sang exquisitely ‘On the Street Where You Live’ from My Fair Lady and explained that, on holiday recently in Ibiza, he had become exasperated (reason not known) and boarded at once for London. At Heathrow, he changed his mind and, hammering to return, took the only remaining seat on the next flight back which happened to be Club Class.

£1000 round-trip. Not bad.

Marcus said, ‘Oh, I think he regained after lunch. I’d forgotten all the whole thing until you mentioned it.’

Seven dogs were present in the Priory, belonging in not quite equal proportions to the gay couples in residence.  They were either black or white, no colour variation permitted. All pedigree of course.

The Priory: Interesting Bannister

The Priory: Dogs in Black or White

Black Dogs

The Priory: Drawing Room. We'd Get Rid of that Blue

Tuesday 17th July 2012

Lord Arrowby! My part-time love interest, you may recall – interest only on my part; he has always been absolutely correct. Not heard of for some time!  You may have been wondering what has become of.

There have been developments.

Last Friday was his summer party. Such an annual fixture! Many clamour for entrance but are denied. This magnificent Governmental figure (he’s somehow in the highest corridors of power, nobody quite knows what he does) – there he was, prancing at the door in greeting, tanned, in a violently brilliant outfit –   wild smoked salmon trousers in a shimmering silky fabric with pleats by Dries (very bold and completely new: a baggy trouser) and a white broidere anglais confection above.

Lord Arrowby set this summer’s colour for Poor Little Rich Gays here and throughout the world. He decreed coral and salmon shades. That’s why I was in coral for the party.

So Lord Arrowby! Unique. Administrative by day, pin-stripe, not quite a bowler hat, planning the Nation’s pensions for 2060. Committees, minutes, fearful solemnity, known to be thoroughly sound. But in his spare time, he sets fashion notes, whirls forth to the Royal Vauxhall Tavern for a drag show.

He’s recently been re-hung, you know. His art collection, that is. Yes, he collects! He’s got some tormented wax chickens in a lighted box. Except on inspection, they’re not chickens, but humans. Also a rat or mouse or insect (can’t quite recall) on a string.

But for the party we were out on his  massive wrap-around (that’s a terrace if you’re mental), easily double the size of the entire substantial duplex from which it flares into a view of the  Houses of Parliament – the throbbing core of our Nation, our Lord’s domain.Champagne was lavished by staff. The Arrowby family arrived by a secret entrance but the new tall gay bucks were already there with waists and huge shoulders.

Oh yes! Lord Arrowby’s thoroughly got away, taken off in a new direction entirely.

Don’t misunderstand. I don’t imply an orgy.  He wasn’t even holding hands with one in particular, not that he would do such a thing in public. But something’s going on, I’m sure of it. Lord Arrowby was zinging and radiant.

I was mad to think he’d marry me. He absolutely wasn’t having it, wouldn’t be tied down, had to be free to shop whenever. On the other hand he never finally drew a line, would murmur to me confidentially at parties and show his vulnerable side. Resistance is not quite the same thing as rejection. For two years there was never any mention of another. And we were well-suited, both Poor Little Rich Gay, both compelled to the heights in all we do, both  most particular and discriminating and inclined to strain,  and needing to lie alone in a darkened room while wondering what might be going on outside, mistrustful of romance but eager for it.

We could have made a reassuring foundation from which to spin a complex web of relationships including many opportunities for diversion, I’m sure. In the 18th century it would have been insisted upon. The forces of society would have offered no choice but marriage, none of these openings to meet other men, as today.

So there we are! Poor Little Rich Gays: never straightforward, thank the Lord! Lord Arrowby appeared in another outfit with different necklace – red trousers this time. I took more champagne and became intolerable. Dear, darling Guy Bostock would speak to me, though. He’s in the law possibly but recalls a noble manly bust of a martial figure of the Roman times. His manner is ironic and superb.  ‘Have you still got your ex-boyfriend in a remote wing of your flat? Isn’t he a policeman?’ I ask.  No, but wanted by the Police, and anyway gone. Now Guy is ‘in a relationship’ or rather was. As soon as undeclared from being in a relationship found to be  in it more than ever – the same relationship, that is.

Otherwise I could not be borne: Rufus Pitman, our great novelist and columnist, lasted no more than thirty seconds. Poor Reggie Cresswell, the world-class ceramicist – we talked about Val and 0thers keen on a drop, one of whom, I explained, was found six weeks dead by Anthony Mottram. That was in Covent Garden. In the 80s.

Lord Arrowby revealed his third outfit.

Monday 16th July 2012

Dear, darling Guy Bostock, so muscular and laying open of the self, once with ex-boyfriend at other end of own flat,  seen at Lord Arrowby’s party on Friday (Come back for more) has just informed me: it was on Channel 4 News. Disbelieving, gingerly I watched the BBC.

It’s true. The jet stream, which has trapped this hellish curse of weather over our beloved homeland, this eternal punishment of rain, for 8 weeks – it’s moving away. Guy heard it on Channel 4 News.

High pressure for Saturday was how the BBC put it!

The Gay Mother said on the telephone this morning, ‘It can’t rain for ever.’  She also said, giving up a trusteeship, handing over to me, ‘I’m still here with my money. Being the only one that’s got any.’  She’s a glorious 88. I said, ‘You’re only supposed to be able to eat a boiled egg at your age.’

But high pressure! I haven’t heard such good news since the vile V2 bombs were put a stop to in 1945 by the Allied forces.

Also this morning Bruce McBain, my private architect (who is now applying by deed poll to be Angus) came round with a roofer.

There’s a leak, you know, at my home. It’s the worse thing, an ingress of water. Water is so paradoxical. Essential to life but not when seeping into decor.What’s the use of it there.

Well, the roofer said the roof didn’t need to be redone. He can mend it.

Oh the glory!

So buoyant, I could almost book World Economy Plus (Business Class as was, before the Flat Bed Era) for New York.

I’ve sent for carpet samples.

Despite economic collapse.

Feel-good factor’s the only factor where money’s concerned.

That’s why some Poor are Rich and some Rich are Poor.

Thursday 12th July 2012

After six more hours of rain, I sank to zero. My rating at the London Poor Little Rich Gay Frockage Bank sank to zero.

Nothing left to give.

But I must battle on, fight into outfits and struggle out of the house in them.

Never give in. When all hope is lost, never give up hope. Poor Little Rich Gays are weft of steel, weave of shimmering silk.

I had private information about the Libor scandal last week. Marcus Cargill, England’s leading clock mender, fielded a Bond Dealer at a function. Who said, ‘My dear, the litigation. Every “trade” made on the rigged rate open to dispute. Lawyers out for years. Billions.’ I might have already mentioned this.

‘Lawyers out’ – that’s a phrase invented by Anthony Mottram, my oldest and closest friend, now estranged.

Salmon slacks from Pau and Joe: Lord Arrowby Championed Salmon for this Season but When are We Going to Have the Season?

Helmut Lang Jean in a Rare Putty Shade: Low Waist, V. Drain-Pipe: Questionable for the Older Gay

Useful Hostess Pants from Paul and Joe: Lovely Shop, Always Have What I Want: Controversial Sheen, Could be Thought Common

Silver-Blue Burberry:Lovely Quality, Useful Collar, Adaptable for Tie or Open Neck: Slimmed Down by Val after a Fitting

Interesting Double Collar on a Dolce e Gabbana Shirt: I Don't Usually Take that House: Common

Tuesday 10th July 2012

The damp and consequent mustiness! In England’s green and pleasant for the last six weeks it has regularly deluged. Some rain has persisted for 36 hours.

It’s impossible to keep the home fresh and wholesome.

There’s nothing I can do to get the stock markets going. The dead weight of dead weight weighs…

But, we must forge on as best we can. Do you know, despite it all – I had a good Sales. Targets were achieved and in some cases exceeded.

Then on Saturday the Multis gave a home concert followed by a six-course dinner at the urban farm next door. 22 dined and were brought in for £1000 not including wines (it’s BYO at the Farm).

Even you could entertain 22 to dinner thus! On an ordinary salary of £100,000 this could be achieved.

Come back later for more. The highest standards were achieved all round.

On Friday it’s Lord Arrowby’s party – as every year. He, you may recall, is that high, high Government back-room greatness who loves a drag show at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Last week, he texted: ‘I’m on my way to Dalston to see “Bitch! Dyke! Faghag! Whore!” ‘ To meet, he’s formidable and governmental, like Mr Darcy but his frockage might be wild. Many try to gain entry to his party and fail. He’s got an irresistible vulnerable side.

So,back to the Sales. Paul and Joe came up trumps as they have been doing recently with salmon (or coral) slacks (£89 40% down at Harrods) and highly useful black trousers (what I call in-between smart and casual) with a controversial sheen some will condemn as common (£100/50% off). These are a godsend, because my friend,Mrs Manreza, axed my adored Prada black nylon pair (‘The fly is grazed,’ she withered) and they had to be replaced.

Another replacement was a Helmut Lang jean in a rare putty shade, filling a desperate gap left after the development of a strange pale patch on my Alexander McQueen miracle creamy, rich grey (such a difficult colour) ones. They were acquired at the Designer Warehouse Sale, Thane Villas, London N1 for £69, down from £170, as was a Dolce e Gabbana double-collar and cuff shirt, also in putty,down to £105 from £250.

At The Library (yes! it’s a frock shop if you’re bone-ignorant) I improvised with credit card and indeed whole life: I took the black suit by Claudio Tonello (I’m sure they said it was Japanese; it can’t be with a name like that) with silk facings in the jersey material that I’ve already mentioned as wearing at the Bath wedding. It’s having a difficult birth into my life – will it be clingy of threads? Will I always be brushing? 40% off £900, whatever that is.

I fear I will go back to wearing the 3-year-old black suit by Niccolo Ceschi Berrini (also from The Library) with an extraordinary slub that was admired by that opera designer despite being tiny.

Then they brought out from the back  a white jacket by a rare house – a hand-stitched, crooner’s piece with dodgy shawl collar, satin facing and satin covered buttons in an intensely interesting linen/cotton mix which doesn’t take the dirt.

I already got the Zara white jacket from last summer, plus the cream suit from Topman (slightly funny smell) – but the opportunity was too great to miss. IT WAS HALF PRICE. £250.  That Zara piece is just a little bit too small.

So far I’ve worn the new white jacket three times (at the Bath wedding for the reception, at Angus Willis’s dinner and at the Multis’ home concert and subsequent urban farm dinner). It’s attracted attention. ‘Hand-stitching,’ everybody cries. You’ll be thrilled to hear it’s full length, not tiny, bum-freezing as I’ve been championing for 4 years now.

Finally, finally, the Dolce e Gabbana putty shirt I mentioned before wasn’t quite the silver shade I was looking for to replace a silk/cotton blouse by Paolo Pecora which had faded at the cuff edge and rotted underarm.  At Harrods on the first day of the Sale I’d seen the Platonic ideal but it was too small. I thought to revise that Sale and maybe, maybe … well, it was still there. I tried on the next size up, a Burberry, and I thought: I’m on my way to Val’s (he’s the one who’s keen on a drop but miraculous at the sewing machine). He can slim it down. I had a fitting at Val’s straightaway and it’s already been returned – reeking of cigarettes no longer after airing for two days.

That Burberry shirt deflated from £79 to £69 between rail and till. The starting price was £170.

Come back tomorrow for graphs of lesser pieces

Black Suit by Claudio Tonello in a Jersey Fabric

Black Suit by Claudio Tonello in Slinky Jersey: But Will It Be Clingy of Threads?

Crooner's White Jacket with Hand Stitching by Francisco Vanbenthum (Likely Name)

Crooner's White Jacket by Francisco Vanbenthum: Fuller View

More of the Crooner's White Jacket: Don't Tell Anyone, But I Had to Replace Some of the Hand-Stitching Myself By Hand. Note the Interesting Linen/Cotton Mix Fabric

Crooner's White Jacket by Francisco Vanbenthum: Detail of Hand-Stitching

Saturday 7th July 2012

In pre-Sale purchasing, my purchasing power embraced a powder-blue/steel-grey (depending on point of view) polyester summer suitlette from Topman with slight slub. You’ve already heard of the tuna droplet that dropped onto its trousers in the horrid pub seconds before the Bath wedding – from the Tuna and Spring onion wich.

But the jacket. I’ve not told you about the jacket, which was taken right to the brink. You won’t believe it. The very first time I wore it which was some weeks before the Bath wedding…. I was in a pale willed summer ensemble for freezing no summer. My cream Marc Jacobs jeans (did you know he’s been dropped from H Nics?) and the Topman jacket of the suit. I was so creamy and pale that, underway for the dinner at Frankie-Doreen May and Giles Ullerston’s, I could have been usefully wrapped in a protection of plastic. But it wasn’t dirt that got me. There was a projecting piece. Just the lightest glance. Throughout the dinner I stroked the place. It was just a little rough. I thought maybe with a razor I could smooth it out. ‘It’s grazed,’ a fellow dinner guest said. ‘If it’s Topman, you can get another,’ said another.  Well, up to a point. Or rather – not likely.  The modes move so swiftly there.

By lunchtime the next day I was breathless in Topman. No sign of the blue/grey suit. Desperation. I show the poor grazed piece to a member of staff who undertakes to look in the back. I wait, facing the end. She comes back. She’s carrying something but still I have no belief.

‘Here you are,’ she says, ‘another jacket in size 42’.

The right jacket! The right size!

Ecstasy! I buy another Topman suitlette in cream on the wave.

That Grazed Topman Jackette in Full

That Graze on Topman Jackette: Close Up. You Do See, Don't You? I Couldn't Possibly Have Lived with It

Topman Cream Suit Bought on Wave of Ecstasy: Has a Slightly Funny Smell, Not Unpleasant

Monday 2nd July 2012

It’s unbearable. Not the racking, throbbing frenzy of the banking crisis of 2008 but now a low ashy death.

This weather.

The inertia in the banking sector. The Euro Crisis. I’ve barely the strength to wear frockage.

My entry on my sales gains in frockage will have to wait until I’ve recovered. Don’t forget that miracle with the Topman suit jackette.Yet to come.

What’s more my private architect, BRUCE MacBain (at times falsely known as ‘Angus’), is trying to circulate a photograph of my grave.

Can you imagine anything more demoralising?

I assume he’s got a scheme worked out, but it’s not wanted YET.

Only Val, who notices little in the world beyond owing to enthusiasm for a drop, goes on. Last Friday he made a strawberry and orange curd from an Old-Fashioned Jam book. He was much preoccupied with its over-sweetness and added lemon juice several times. I was round Saturday night and tried it with ice cream.

Most unusual.

Over the curd, we prepared a list of useful phrases to be included in an imaginary beginners’ English lesson.

‘Would you like une mille feuille?’, for instance. To be followed by a full recital. ‘Would they like une mille feuille?’ ‘Would he/she or it like….?’

Of course, Val can still decline the subjunctive form of  the French verb, Cueillir, with exceptional menace. Cueillir means to gather, pick, pluck or tear off. I always thought it meant ‘to grow’ but it doesn’t.

Otherwise, Val produced a catalogue. It was for a Paris exhibition, given in the 1980s,  of photographs of society ladies from La Belle Epoque in Worth gowns. Some of them claimed to be Minerva, in other words equipped with a spear and shield, adding to the bulky effect. The captions, in French, were quite tart: ‘La Marquise  Marie-Soubise Horloge de Sabayon Ferdandez Appleyard (or whatever) was a legendary beauty but nothing rivaled the cult she made of herself. She was Proust’s model for la Duchesse de Germantes.’

They were all Proust’s model for someone or other.

Huge strivings, I imagine, to get into Proust in those days.

Sunday 1st July 2012

Is the Euro Crisis? So many Poor Little Rich Gays are not on speakers at the moment. Actually, it’s the Kitchen question au fond.

As you know, Poor Little Rich Gays revel in Kitchen mania. No, not cupboards and granite work-tops and let-in sinks. A Kitchen is correctly the younger, charm-drenched boyfriend or ‘partner’ of the older Poor Little Rich Gay who also funds lavishly.

The term ‘Kitchen’ was coined by Anthony Mottram of Prague, my oldest and closet friend, currently estranged, who was once teaching a 19-year-old Czech young man English. He got ‘chicken’ and ‘kitchen’ muddled up (they’ve the same letters but in different places: bet you’ve never thought of that before). Well, if a ‘chicken’ might describe such a delightful, fresh young person…

Do you get it?

But Kitchens …. their sweetness, perfection, liveliness, the utter heaven of romance. Why, oh why, should they gain gainful employment, are they found with their fingers in the till? Why, oh why, do they tend to substances in the wrong amounts?

Kitchens create complications in more ways than this.

Yesterday I went over to Val’s after Harrods (don’t forget those late sale 70% bargains: you’ve got to get all the shops covered that one last time NOW. Who knows what they’ve brought out from the back: One more time, the noble roll call of the battlefields: Knightsbridge, Brompton Cross, Ledbury Road, Floral Street, Oxford Street). Outside Harrods I stepped on some chewing gum and transferred it to the carpet of the instore Prada concession boutique.

There’s an underlying bitterness towards frockage that sometimes comes out.

In Bath last week, the Gay Mother (she’s fraught with business affairs too) and I happened on a ruined churchyard. Old Bathwick church. Someone has cleared the brambles from the graves and provided labels as substitutes for the now illegible inscriptions: Mrs Brisbane, mother of the 1st Governor of Queensland after whom the state capital was named, Ann Lee, a loyal servant…

Poor Little Rich Gays encompass death; Earls Court Gays bleach it out with their bleached teeth.

At times Poor Little Rich Gays crave eternal rest: no more struggle with stains, no more battle for new frockage,  no more racking head pain over kitchen, bathroom, stairs, bedrooms, drawing room, the only drawback not being alive.

In the Bath graveyard some fragments survive. The final resting place of those persons has come round again as a romantic wistful spot.

Come back soon for my new Sales frockage; what I bought… and THAT Topman suit jackette saga in full!

Old Bathwick Church, Bath

A Grave Label, Old Bathwick Church, Bath

Staff Memorial, Old Bathwick Church, Bath: Where Would Poor Little Rich Gays be Without Staff?

Something New: Car with Eyelashes, Seen in Covent Garden on Tuesday