Jug Worry

Friday 3rd February 2017

The year is now rattling at full speed after the minute lull at the beginning of the month. Brexit the Musical, about a pub in Petite Venise I’ve already mentioned, followed the next day by a private family dinner, then London Art Fair (3 bump-intos, one with a private jet and one, Matt Driver, with earnings at the greater end) , then Anthony Mottram last minute at Bocca di Lupo on the Sunday, then the Finborough Theatre on the Monday, a money lunch at Ivy Market Grill on the Tuesday, with a quiet dinner in the evening for 5 (I did Ottolenghi’s chicken in arak with clementines, except it was Seville oranges, vermouth and rosemary not thyme)… Thursday was a Cocktail Party to launch the Aids Ark Dinner for One – Genevieve Suzy was one of two actual women present. Saturday to Cromer for Lady Bracknell’s Confinement (it’s a play). Monday was La La Land. Wednesday I lunched with my prints and framing department and Thursday (yesterday) was a huge lunch for contributors to Dainty Lady TV. I wore my new Topman frock coat in a controversial dirty oatmeal shade. It turned out that our whippy intern, who doubles as our underground link to the Royal Family, had on the trouser part of the ensemble – all reduced online, you see. We were graphed clamped together, making a strange zig-zag matching set. Next to me was a National greatness also seen on TV sitting in a armchair with leafy print watching TV with husband crouched beside. At once she announced to me that she had reason not to be on speakers with household name sitting next to her on the other side, now retired to organ-playing, and his torch of satire handed on to Laura Malcolm’s friend, Piggy – but despite no speaks was totally on speaks with the former head of satire, indeed it was clear that she would forge steadily on forever. She explained how she had telephoned the Express years ago  and not been put through to the editor of the colour section. So she phoned back later, giving the same surname as that editor with a different first name. Was put straight through and got a gig criticising her husband (he also to criticise her, but less so presumably) which lasted for years at £450 a go.

Monday is to be Jackie. I have to say I’m hysterical. Boucle, 3/4 length sleeves and pill-box hats. I’m just chronic with excitement.

But going back to Anthony Mottram showing up last minute a few weeks ago on a Sunday. We took Bocco di Lupo but it’s not what it was. The cime di rapa a bit soggy. How we talked! Talked and talked. It’s been going on since 1970, when we were introduced at the housemaster’s introductory tea-party and I fell off the chair with daintiness so Anthony Mottram has put it about ever since. Yap, yap, yap without ceasing from that date, for 47 years, with interludes of no speaks. Some people fascinate, others do not. What a rollercoaster of divine nonsense and radiant truth. Anthony Mottram maintains I have compulsive obsessive disorder, but he is much pre-occupied with the home and goes around his apartment in Prague of museum proportions touching up the paint work himself. The tin of paint he uses was specially prepared for him by the architect. His old cleaner would not improve and the new one is a smasher. In Prague the cleaners come every day. She smashed a £450 plate and threw away the remains. For Christmas she gave a Ukrainian drinks dispenser.

My problem is a pottery jug. My belief is it was given by the Gay Grandmother as a prop for my appearance in the school Nativity Play. I think I was a shepherd, so why a jug? All the same, the item does have a whiff of ancient Palestine, it’s true. For years, it’s been cluttering up my kitchen work top behind the toaster, where nothing much goes on. My cupboards are crammed, you see.  In January I moved it to another part of the work surface which might be termed a pre-death area. ‘Throw it away,’ Anthony Mottram said. ‘Don’t cling to the past.’ The craft and pottery path is not one I’ve gone down in my home, unlike Robert Nevil and Sebastian Archer. . I’m not even keeping that path for another day – as in that poem by Robert Frost. Besides this jug is undistinguished even as pottery. But I fear it will linger, to be disposed of by others after my day.

Jug: Not Much Even as Pottery but with an Undoubted Whiff of Ancient Palestine

Jug: Not Much Even as Pottery but with an Undoubted Whiff of Ancient Palestine

 

Posted Friday, February 3, 2017 under Adrian Edge day by day.

2 comments

  1. Robert Nevil says:

    I’ll have it.

  2. laura malcolm says:

    Robert Nevil, you’ve already got more than enough stuff in your house.

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