Glorious Fragments Launch the Autumn Season

Tuesday 10th September 2013

I’ve been immured in estate work. Papers all over the floor. Plus I’ve resolved to use up all the nearly used up small bottles of shower gel in my shower.  Pliers though to get the top off the one from L’Occitane which was free gift for press trip.

So the Autumn Season began with rather too much Benjamin Britten – but more of that later. I must also launch my scheme to be more like Queen Victoria in the later years.

Rufus Pitman, world-loved novelist and critic and commentator, is in blazing form. He gave a dinner. There’s a cat that visits his flat. It actually lives downstairs, in another flat, where it is viewed as a girl-cat called Pamela. But chez Rufus it is Monty and definitely male. Rufus has written and performed on Facebook a jolly song about the life of Monty, not explicable in normal terms. Further drama: Raj Zoraster, other half of Rufus, insists on the rather ITV3 spelling of ‘Monti’. He absolutely does.

As always at Rufus’s, fantastic luxury gossip because all the other guests run the country. Apparently in the old days, the Whips were actual heavies who would tower over recalcitrant MPs and lift them off the ground if necessary until their voting plans were clear. Now it’s all Ed Milly, pretty, pretty, Hampstead communists. More and more I’d like to take Ed Milly home and soothe him in a basket by a nice warm fire.

Lord Arrowby also runs the country; he was diagonal from me at the table. Dead opposite was Sir Morton who runs the peers, I believe. Otherwise he and Lady Morton bicycle around the Central of Europe and do their best for some delirious old gay called Helmut who thinks of nothing but sex and has sadly reaped the consequences. They had much difficulty in conveying their story of Helmut because Poor Little Rich Gays, even the most powerful in the world, have the concentration span of gnats and, as we know, rarely listen  or change their minds anyway – how else would they have become what they afterwards became? But Lady Morton was having none of it and forged on, even if it meant hospitalisation with the effort. Lord Arrowby himself was distracted, just at the vital point, when Helmut had escaped from a secure unit,  and I had to tell him off. I’m one of the few that would dare. But I put it down to his suffering and constant contact with the Prime Minister. Whereas the PM, as we know from the Cornish beach shots, has turned into a barrel, Lord A has grown never more lovely, with a miraculous transfigured quality, transfigured by the cares of this world and transported to another plane. Whose heart would not stir? Speaking to me, he melts completely and is radiant. But if I speak to him, it’s another story. ‘I hated Coldbarrow,’ he wailed at one point. ‘Hated it.’ That was his Public. He won’t take what he calls a long car drive (i.e. ten miles to a plant nursery) because of unpleasant memories of going back to The Firs, the former dentists that was his Prep School. The last time he went on a car journey, he said, was with me and Robert Nevil, about ten years ago. It was only to near Stansted Airport for a plant nursery.

I must tell you who Robert Nevil met in the Post Office, what happened re: caviar when Genevieve Suzy of the magazine world dined with Ed Jasper, the bed linen expert. Also the story of  Roxanne General, the jet-powered headmistress, who was offered a box of Milk Tray by a man she met in a park when she was seven. Finally, finally, who did we see in the audience on an obscure visit to Guildford?

 

Posted Tuesday, September 10, 2013 under Adrian Edge day by day.

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