En Normandie

Friday September 8th 2017

I took the Newhaven-Dieppe crossing this time to make a change: never again. No wifi and filthy food. Spent six hours in Samuel Beckett brown lounge of death. The Official Car was piled high with bagged outfits, some of which have subsequently gone missing. Where is my Paul Costello grey jumper, bought from TX Maxx last autumn for £9.99?  Also the Zara sub-Alexander McQueen black T-shirt with skull and roses print, about the same price? I think left at the Gay Mother’s. I feel like a desperate washwoman at the clothes’ line in a gale, outfits flying away in all directions, no ideah what’s going on re: wardrobe.

I’m going to go back to TX Maxx and see if they’ve got any more merino jumpers by Paul Costello for £9.99. It was a lovely little thing. Such a shape. But had lost its efficacy, gawn fuzzy, by March, if the truth be told.

Wools are such a trial.

The weather forecast for Normandy was dubious but a fete champetre was achieved regardless. But I never thought I’d be close to the Throne. All the white European British of the neighbourhood plus one American and one actual French who had to leave for New York, had been summoned. The table stretched as far as the eye could see and groaned with the famous pate de Usk, self-made by the Laird, an imperial salmon and all the tarts and elegances that grace the summer outdoor luncheon table at summer’s height in France.  Monet achieved the same at Giverny. It was not on this occasion that Laura Malcolm’s cardy caught fire, her favourite cardy. Beamish O’Halloran of the Mail gained 65 years at luncheon but said it would cost him dear. ‘I’ll be paying 40% taxes,’ he cried. Two other men at the table were considerably older than 65; one had purple hair and the other is living in an old factory heaped around with disused London buses. ‘Are you well off?’ Beamish said to one of them, causing a sensation. Beamish often causes a sensation. Was it a woman Sky TV presenter who often said, allegedly, stepping off the set, to any nearby cameraman, ‘Take a shower and report to my dressing room in ten minutes?’ She only wanted a little donation to her favourite charity when this story appeared in the Mail, or one like it. Such a nice lady, completely enthralled by Beamish, of course.

But can you believe who was at the lunch otherwise? Introduced by the man with purple hair? Yes! Close to the Throne. The sister of one who has fitted the Middletons!  The Gay Mother’s got a cardy by the sister, from when Cousin Barley worked there and we gained the sample sale, Aunt Lavinia and I. And also saw, while at the sample sale, the mega purring perfectly honed and very respectable German Euro-Gay who was the business head of the sister’s couture house and known to Joshua Baring. I could see he sensed danger and took on a very German look of imminent world war when I mentioned the name of Joshua Baring. Why? Anyway the Euro was dressed for duck-shooting, although in Upper Berkeley Street.

And that’s just the half of it. I gushed the story to the sister of the Gay Mother’s cardy and how one of its buttons fell off in the drawing room and we almost couldn’t find it which would have been disastrous because it was faceted jet. Otherwise it wasn’t necessary to speak to her, just to gaze. It never is necessary to speak to a connection. The connection is all. She throbbed with Royalty and the core of English life.

Then there was her husband. Blue-eyed, almost blond, weather-beaten, posh, plainly given to manly pursuits out of doors. ‘What do you do?’ I purred. ‘I’m a conservation builder,’ he said. Utter heaven. My favourite thing, light-touch conservation building work. I was fully engaged. Lime-plastering, reclamation yards, tongue-and-groove…. He knew a lime-plasterer in the Far West. I was sure they must exist. Such a thrilling confirmation. ‘What are you doing at the moment?’ I inquired. ‘We’re working at Windsor… must be finished before she comes back…’ ‘Who?’ ‘The Queen.’ I was on the floor. He was mending some steps for the Queen, in her private garden at Windsor.

I’m not surprised she chose him.

So double throne in one day and looks.

The Samuel Beckett Lounge of Death, Newhaven - Dieppe Ferry. Never Again

The Samuel Beckett Lounge of Death, Newhaven – Dieppe Ferry. Never Again

 

Posted Friday, September 8, 2017 under Adrian Edge day by day.

2 comments

  1. Laura Malcolm says:

    Can’t you lure the posh builder into the Gay home with talk of light touch conservation work? Then lock him up in your under street storage area.

  2. Adrian Edge says:

    Well, it’s a thought. Desperate at the moment. Miroslav is working round the corner but won’t, won’t come to my residence

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