Just Back from Ikea but So Many Fragments…

Thursday 12th September 2013

Val, fortified with port but growing steadier through the afternoon as the fortification wore off, and I carried out an assignment  today for Dainty Lady TV at Ikea, North Circular Road. I’m only just back – shattered. We had a wail of a time. Saw a lady with a 100 frying pans in her trolley. Another contemplated a floor-length paper lamp : ‘The cat’ll play with it, ‘she snapped at her husband then knocked it over. It was a no-buy.  Oh the crewel work lampshades! And the Ming dinner service! Radiant. If only one had room…

Val and I were shown, slightly hysterical, in nipped-in mini-outfits shrieking round Ikea: me saying, in China and Glass: ‘I’ve got those silver entreé dishes, of course. They were a wedding present to my mother. Nevertheless I feel the call of more serving dishes.’ But where was the selection? Val said, ‘Sweden’s near Russia. Perhaps they favour service à la Russe.’ He seemed to think service à la Russe was equivalent to plating up. I said, ‘Service à la Russe need not preclude serving dishes.’ I added, ‘The Blond Multi hates the vegetables plated onto the plate at dinners. He likes to help himself from serving dishes.’ ‘At least I got one thing right, ‘ said Val.

We must not upset the Multis.

We went on about service à la Russe for some time because we know what makes fantastic TV.

At one point we were desperate. We had nothing in our trolley. Then Val lighted on some rufflet tape on offer in packets at a certain length. He snapped up despite having no immediate prospect of curtains to make. Rather like the young women in Northern Ireland who sensibly book Northern Ireland’s only desirable wedding venue well in advance, well in advance of having any man with whom to unite. The men of Northern Ireland are apparently impressed by the wife-like quality of booking in advance rather than slightly perturbed.

Then things looked up in Fabrics. We loved a white fabric with children’s drawings all over it. Val said he’d dip it in instant coffee for an aging effect and use it for my dining chairs. We studied how to buy the fabric. You have to self-cut. Can you imagine the adventure? The scissors were chained which reminded Val of how teaspoons were chained against nicking in greasy spoons in the 60s.

Anyway I was going to do my fragments. But what about last night! The Italian Cultural Institute! Dinner after in the private home of Cultural Attaché. Me deep in confab with household name. ‘I love heels,’ she said. She’s 66, you see, although you’d never know it. ‘Can you walk though?’ ‘I don’t intend to walk, ‘ she said.  She said, ‘The people I work with have given up on heels. I haven’t.’ She meant Gloria and Angela.

So: my fragments…

Genevieve Suzy, of the magazine world, dined, oddly in August (who dines in August in London: it’s impossible) with Roland Mainflower and Ed Jasper, the bed linen expert. She’d never dined there before and only by co-incidence knows them. Magazine people are big at Roland and Ed’s. Genevieve couldn’t believe it. The champagne! ‘The money…’ she spluttered. In pre-nibbles, caviar was actually assaulted upon her mouth by Ed. ‘He talked very fast,’ Genevieve said. ‘There might have been a reason for that,’ I said. We reckon their income is £350,000 a year, what with the private doctoring in Harlena and the investments.

Robert Nevil, lured by the call of the Pony Club back from the bottling factory in Bulgaria (the orphans would piss in the pickling plant) dined last week after West Side Story, the Musical. ‘Chatting to Danny Boyle in the Post Office….’ he dropped. Arse. He knows DB because neighbour, not through the Pony Club, of which DB is not a member. That man was a credit re: the Olympic Opening Ceremony but I’ll never forgive him for that unspeakable boy-in-toilet incident in Slumbog Millionaire. As for the wretch-making nightmare of Trainspotting throughout, but when that heroin-addict soiled the pink sheets…

Unforgiveable. That’s enough, Danny Boyle. You’ve gone too far. Heroin addicts should buck up. And I’m never going to India.

Finally I lunched at Penn, the richest place in Britain, with old friends, not often seen. Carole Vaux, Carstairs as was, married Derek in the late 80s when all he had was a lock-up in East Finchley. Now she’s got a pool (outdoor but heated), rose garden, extensive garaging and Fern Britton – well, you can’t say next door because each house is in a wood of its own. Roxanne General, the jet-powered headmistress, was the other luncheon guest. She recalled being seven and eating a box of Milk Tray in a park with one hand while with the other holding the penis of the man who had given her the chocs, with the promise of bigger boxes on further days. ‘Didn’t affect me at all,’ she said. It was annoying when somehow the practice was discovered and put a stop to because no more chocs.  Any idea of arresting the man did not occur.

Ikea Fabric Bought: Val to dip in Instant Coffee for Aging Effect

Ikea: Chained Scissors

Lady of the 100 Frying Pans: Ikea

Ikea: Crewel Work Shades: Must-Have

 

 

Posted Thursday, September 12, 2013 under Adrian Edge day by day.

3 comments

  1. Robert Nevil says:

    So sorry: I thought “Arse” (in this sense, I hasten to add) was the entire essence of PLRG.

    See pssim, but in particular, in the same posting: “The Italian Cultural Institute! Dinner after in the private home of Cultural Attaché.”

    Get you, ducky, as the older gays more elegantly used to put it.

  2. Adrian Edge says:

    Lord Arrowby changed his mind re: being so tired he could barely stand and stopped on the way back from Rufus Pitman’s to visit Ducky Club

  3. Adrian Edge says:

    You’re right. ‘Arse’attitude is central to Poor Little Rich Gay. But my prerogative. Not for others.

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