Some Things that Happened

Wednesday 15th February 2017

Valentine’s Day did not go well for Poor Little Rich Gays, but it wouldn’t, would it?

Meantime, here are some things that happened:

Miss Mina took a break from artwork (her linocut of an American Turkey was the Gay Mother’s star present for Christmas) to have an anaesthetic. ‘They had trouble bringing her round,’ Robert Nevil reported. ‘She’s so tiny, you see. Imagine trying to anaesthetise a mouse.’  Before she was anaesthetised, Miss Mina was one of my bump-into’s at London Art Fair. She was touring the show with her friend and fellow artworker, Mrs Magnus, who flies privately, you know, with a turkey on board, but trussed and oven-ready for the Christmas table at Montreux, not living and magnificent as in Miss Mina’s lino-cut.

Prince Dmitri was returning at 2a.m. from a night out with co-workers at his blue chip. The new lodger opposite in the mews sprang up at a window and invited him in. Well, it’s very intimate in a mews. The Prince said he’d go into his own house first. While he was there, the chap came knocking on the door, he was that keen. He works for Faron Sutaria. Joining the party in the other house, Prince Dmitri was aware that a certain height had been achieved, with assistance. There was another young man there on a phone. The estate agent left the room and came back with no shirt on. He too had a phone. ‘Have you got pussy on speed dial?’ he inquired of the Prince. The gathering lasted for hours, until it was time for the young man to resume his duties at Faron Sutaria. But no pussy appeared.

Last week, Laura Malcolm was recuperating in the Chelsea Public Library, King’s Road. As I’m sure you know the famous registry office is in the same building.  A wedding could be heard getting underway with bagpipe accompaniment but police sirens added another layer of interest. Laura recorded it and the effect was magical. The melancholy wailing of bagpipes and hysterical screaming of sirens going on absolutely at once – what could better depict the married state.

At lunch on Sunday Beamish O’Halloran was fresh from the funeral of Alexander Chancellor and tremendous bickering in the car with his tremendous mate, the great Mail diarist. He recalled a previous Press outing to an important golf hotel in Ireland with this diarist. But Beamish slipped at the ninth hole and muddied his trousers. He only had one pair so he self-washed and hung them out of the window of his room. But this was badly letting down the upmarket golf hotel. At once they were whipped off the window sill by staff while Beamish was in the spa in a dressing gown. Regaining his room, he found his trousers not remotely dry. Thus it was he was squelchy at dinner to say the least.

Posted Wednesday, February 15, 2017 under Adrian Edge day by day.

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