A Melange

Tuesday 3rd August 2021

August used to be the most hated month of death. But now all changed, quite changed.

Anthony Mottram and I drove to see Val at Moscova, Hastings. I think I mentioned before that Val’s vaccine journey has begun. Although the vaccinators had the effrontery to complain that there was insufficient of Val available in which to insert the needle. For he has taken Wallis Windsor’s insistence that ‘you can never be too rich or thin’ very much to heart, except not so much the rich bit. Speaking of whom, Val found a photo of Charles James’ Robe à Trefle de Quatre Feuilles, which she had in the black and white modelle, to help me with my five-hour piece to camera on the Duchess for Dainty Lady TV. It’s a Surrealist frock. Once in it, the wearer cannot move. At the V&A, in the private store, of course, many years ago, Val handled another of the Four-Leave-Clover dresses, not Wallis’s, but wasn’t allowed to try it on.  But he is sure he could have squeezed into it. Otherwise Val had watched the Smithsonian Channel, a very instructive programme about how some frightful old mogul thought to introduce hippos into Columbia for his private pleasure. They got out, of course, and it emerged they simply loved Columbia where they have become an absolute menace.

Val is hanging on by a thread really. I must get down again soon and have a really good go at his windows.

As it happened I’d been in that neighbourhood only a day or two before for the Great Dixter Plant Fayre. Robert Nevil and the Nizam were in the party. There was possible structural racism in the lack of a suitable Hindu lunch. Pulled pork bap not ideal for the vegetarian. A woman at the Fayre, who looked as if she might be involved in home-dyeing with self-made plant dyes of medieval origin, had loud opinions. One of them was re: her daughter’s friend who is transitioning. ‘I find it difficult to call you “they”‘, the woad woman said she had said. ‘You’ll get used to it,’  was the daughter’s friend idea of a reply. Woad woman: ‘Bloody cheek! She’s only 14.’

Dear precious Dixter just a little suffering, perhaps the staff still ‘furloughed’. But glorious of course, all the same. My favourite moment was some small yellow and orange lilies growing amongst evergreens by a wall. So unlikely.

Robert Nevil and the Nizam were too grand for the Euro football contest. But Anthony Mottram came round in the evening when we got back and made them watch it. He’d already had a semi-final party at his new aerial cave in old TV centre, which at a cost of £2.5 million leaks profusely through the ceilings during heavy rain. The menu was, Pea Shape,  Summer Casserole, which is very like Winter, Spring and Autumn casserole, in fact quite indistinguishable. The key thing is the time of year at which it is served. Then lemon tart, raspberries and cream, the cream being not an accompaniment or relish as usual but decidedly a third item competing equally on the plate.

Robert Nevil and the Nizam loved the football game. They’d never been so riveted by the screen since the last festival of tiny Gay films at the National Film Theatre. I enjoyed the lawn on which the football is played. It was beautifully kept and stripy. The clothes are a bit garish and some of the people on the pitch clashed in sudden orange. As for the game, it must be so annoying that whenever a player tries to kick the ball into the goal, there are always people in the way. You’re not allowed to push them over or kick at their shins to get them to run away. Maybe they should change the way the game is played.

My Favourite Dixter Moment of 2021 - a Lily growing among Ferns

My Favourite Dixter Moment of 2021 – a Lily growing among Ferns

Lily and Fern - so Unexpected

Lily and Fern – so Unexpected

Dixter: Pot Display. Common but Marvellous

Dixter: Pot Display. Common but Marvellous

 

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A Failing Property

Tuesday 27th July 2021

I took Ickworth in the 1980s with Twirly Godfrey. We drove over from an Easter holiday flat (horror) at Southwold. You couldn’t get into the restaurant of that smart hotel there, even then. In the party were Twirly’s wife, Listy Prue and a redoubtable friend of her brother’s from Australia who had Twirly and Listy anchored for a while, with order in the home and a good mince loaf on the table. Listy had renounced vegetarianism because she heard on Woman’s Hour that the condition made you more likely to have girls. She thought that would be unfair on any boy babies she might fail to have. She had three girls anyway and no boys.

It must have been Easter Day or Monday when we went to Ickworth. It was swarming with visitors. In a yew walk I proclaimed loudly, ‘If I were Mrs Thatcher, I wouldn’t sit up half the night for people like this.’ The house I thought enchanting inside, full of the most lovely things, not grand, good English plain, the very best. One sensed someone of utmost taste behind it – an Earl of Bristol, I suppose, one of whom built the house in the late 18th century.

In 2018, I re-visited with the Gay Mother and had to make do with the kitchens. The main house wasn’t open, although it said it was in the book. It was a gloomy autumn day. The place didn’t seem as I remembered. The main rotunda appeared huge and louring, as well as dilapidated and a nasty cement finish. But I thought maybe if it weren’t all shut up it would be different.

At least this time, on the way back from Norfolk, we could get into the house. The hall was gloomy like a Roman church. There was something odd happening in the three arches that are intended to give a grand vista through to the further atrium where there is a monumental Laocoön-type sculpture, in fact The Fury of Athamas, by Flaxman, an obscure father who killed his son. The National Trust had placed scaffolding ‘installations’ so blocking the view. We were being subjected to an ‘expression’ of the house in restoration. All we could see where a few relics elaborately displayed, the staircase and two rooms, the rest was closed. A volunteer said that many of her colleagues had not returned to work after the unmentionable. Royston said, ‘This is the property where they tried to make the volunteers wear rainbow lanyards.’ We were darkly suspicious.

I don’t know what happened to my memory. The house is not at all a quiet plain sort of place full of elegant, restrained lovely things,  but architectural, full-on Roman, grand and massive. From what we learned of the family, they were beastly, especially the ‘Earl-Bishop’, who never bothered with the Bishop bit but just raked it in from the Bishopric, which was of Derry.

Royston pronounced it a failing property. Appalling costs of up-keep. Not enough visitors. He was exasperated also by the endless emphasis on the ‘Earl-Bishop’.  ‘They mean a Bishop who was also an Earl. There’s no such thing as an “Earl-Bishop”,’ he raged.

We wandered in the grounds. Soon everybody else had gone home. Really the place is a tomb. There was nothing we could do for it.

Ickworth - Tomb-like

Ickworth – Tomb-like

The Fury of Athamas by Flaxman. Very Worrying

The Fury of Athamas by Flaxman. Very Worrying: Here is He is, Killing his Son. Ideal as Your Centrepiece in the Main Hall of the Home 

The Only Room at Ickworth we Could See. Pillars in the Drawing Room says it All

The Only Room at Ickworth we Could See. Pillars in the Drawing Room says it All

Ickworth - Just one Room Open.

Ickworth – Just one Room Open.

 

 

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Small Cathedrals and A Shrine

Sunday 25th July 2021

We went on from Burghley to Herbert Morrison and St Anselm’s at Cromer. The welcome dinner was sumptuous, to say the least. The next night we went to dine in an hotel, the only time I have attempted public eating in this phase. It rained on the way there and we had to hide under dripping laurels. It should be noted that laurel drips spectacularly well. When a couple are positioned in Cromer, it’s important that London should regularly monitor their condition. Royston’s approach is as one preparing a Cabinet briefing paper. On the face of it, HM is the worst behaved of the two. Just now he’s toying with the Tories, which is a far cry from the early Leninist days. In either case, he thinks little of the public and their tiresome demands. Why can’t they do more for themselves? St Anselm ditto, re: the public at the National Trust stately where he presides. That very day somebody had expected to be wheel-chaired all the way back from the far end of the arboretum. ‘Why did they go there in the first place if they weren’t able to get back?’ St Anselm raged. Herbert Morrison told us how he had tormented the Leader of the Tories with the possibility of joining – for a while, perhaps, or maybe not at all. Royston thought this approach a mistake but I begged to differ. This is HM’s power game. Next morning he cornered me before breakfast and inflicted an unsparing description of the toilet behaviour of a previous lodger. He believes that the younger generation are not brought up to toilet. But I imagine the main purpose was to ensure I wouldn’t want any breakfast and thereby economise. Or just for the hell of it.

Herbert Morrison arranged a private visit to the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham. It’s a strange 1930s place – the actual Shrine resembling a semi on the Great West Road. The gardens are pleasant and even with interest and there is a crop of buildings where pilgrims may gather for food or moral improvement that have a special bare quality. We lunched with the director and his assistant – much ecclesiastical gossip and Royston suggested various ways forward re: funding and encouraging more visitors. The next day we visited Norwich, where I haven’t been since the early 70s. The cathedral is nice but a bit small, like Winchester, I said. Royston blew up. Winchester is not small, it’s one of the biggest, he declaimed. Well, it wasn’t when I went there, I protested. Low and long, like a cottage, I said. I quite liked Norwich Cath, although rather a hybrid, not solid and venerable as a pure Romanesque, not really soaring either as a Gothic. Old, though. Most striking, I thought, were the strange patterns on the spire. Somehow they looked exotic. Byzantine, Royston suggested. There was little to do at Norwich in terms of projecting for the future, setting up trusts etc. The bishop seemed not to be about, nor anybody else of influence. It remained to compliment the volunteers on a lovely cathedral and continue our visit to the rest of Norwich, which turned to be extensive with historic neighbourhoods, oldy-worldy and nooky-wooky. Very satisfactory. Herbert Morrison and Royston, being catholics, were hell-bent on the Catholic cathedral but I could go no further. Sitting on a bench I received the miraculous news via Instagram that Her Majesty the Queen had arrived at Ascot Races final Saturday.

Our Lady of Walsingham: the Sacred Inner Shrine

Our Lady of Walsingham: the Sacred Inner Shrine: Floor like that of the Porch of a 30s Semi

Our Lady of Walsingham: Stillness, like the Queen

Our Lady of Walsingham: Stillness, like the Queen

Norwich Cathedral Inside: Looks More Soaring than it is

Norwich Cathedral Inside: Looks More Soaring than it is

Norwich Cathedral Inside: Looks more Soaring than It is

Norwich Cathedral Inside: Looks more Soaring than It is

Strange Patterns on the Spire of Norwich Cathedral: Secret Signals?

Strange Patterns on the Spire of Norwich Cathedral: Secret Signals?

 

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I Quite Forgot

Sunday 25th July 2021

I found the end of the rainbow. It was right outside my drawing room window.

Nobody has ever found the end of the rainbow before. I found it then forgot about it.

Here it is: the end of the rainbow: who could doubt it?

The end of the Rainbow

The end of the Rainbow

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A Small Tour

Wednesday 21st July 2021

Harry Rollo’s perf was exterminated by an early outbreak of pinging before anyone had heard of pinging. Harry Rollo in advance of his time as always – but really so awful. Royston and I managed to carry on with the rest of our tour as planned. I’ve always wanted to see Burghley House so it was treated as en route for Norfolk where we were to stay with Herbert Morrison and St Anselm. You load into Burghley from the side after a massive trek all round its massive park. Therefore the full vista of the house, which is supposed to be a glorious Elizabeth fantasy of crazy chimney ideas is not on view. The inside tour is a rich suite of 17th century rooms got up to look like a Renaissance palace in Italy. In some of them the walls and ceilings are painted as one with heroic classical scenes swirling throughout – an incredible sight. I liked that there was good modern honey-beige carpet and a sense of the family still with money. Royston was recognised at once by the loyal attendants at least one of whom experienced an evident excitement in the presence. There was one outstanding Gainsborough and some ravishing floral bed-hangings restored. Just maybe after 20 or 30 such drawing rooms one was a little shattered. View from the windows tending towards pleasant. We were so long touring there was no time for the grounds and Royston felt it necessary to boost morale in the gift shop. On the whole there was only limited scope for input into the property such as we normally like to put in – suggesting which Trusts might help, how to get better signage on the public roads nearby and so on. They had apparently worked quite a lot of that out for themselves. I raced round to try and get the famous view of the building as a whole – oh dear! It looked like a girls’ school. Someone must have altered the windows in the 19th century.

We roared on to Herbert Morrison and St Anselm’s for the Welcome Dinner.

Burghley House - Crazy Skyline

Burghley House – Crazy Skyline

Burghley House: Swirly Interior

Burghley House: Swirly Interior

Burghley House: Good Gainsborough

Burghley House: Good Gainsborough

Burghley House: Good Chair

Burghley House: Good Chair

Burghley House: Stand-out Bed-hangings

Burghley House: Stand-out Bed-hangings

Burghley House: Swirly Interior Supreme. The Heaven Room

Burghley House: Swirly Interior Supreme. The Heaven Room

Burghley House: Park: Dull

Burghley House: Park: Dull

Burghley House: Outside like a Girls' School

Burghley House: Outside could be a Girls’ School

 

 

 

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Lunch

Monday 12th July 2021

Lunch was at 12.30. First of all, we met the Head of Plants. ‘A friend said to me: “You’re in charge of all the plants in Britain.” Well, I suppose I am.’ The Head of Plants and Royston are new on the Council. The little gilt chairs were out. Flowers on the table, placement and printed menu in each place: asparagus, lamb main, tea, coffee and petit fours. Dessert not mentioned. Maybe it was proposed at the planning stage but slashed out. The Head of Plants said they’re building a collection of ash trees that resist the die-back. But xylella is the big worry. The idea is to massively expand the growing of plants in the UK to avoid imports. This can be done. Very encouraging. Royston was pleased.

Essentially we tended to the Nation all afternoon. Or rather Royston did with me lurking, at times hardly able to stand. Luncheon was served and was excellent. Very fresh and natural. The tent was beside the unimaginable Long Water that Charles 11 installed for Hampton Court, with the Wren facade at one end and at the other, infinity, the unknown, stretching beyond what the eye can see. Royston said that the Long Water, although Long, is remarkable shallow.  There was a Royal feel at the table with that Royal work of keeping the conversation going. My neighbour said he had an allotment at Guilford. He must have had more range than that in the allotment world but he didn’t say so. Otherwise our table was Britain in Bloom. Royston thought more could be done. One of the Britain in Bloom cohort was a former Head of Parks in the Far West and knew my minerals except not that they belong in part to me. Royston was surprised that I mentioned them. But my minerals are my only claim to importance these days.

Our progress through the Show after luncheon was gruelling but superb. At times, I feared I would fail in my duty and keel on the spot. We met the Head of Royal Parks, the former Head of Chelsea Flower Show, a garden designer named Butterworth, a husband with a laser harp he’d built himself and front-of-house wife, the former editor of Gardens Illustrated, at least two huge cogs in the Royal Hort machine such as the Head of Money and the Head of IT to whom Royston urged greater unity with Britain in Bloom, some young women in frocks who wanted to have lunch with Royston – only in the toilets did we get any respite . Unfortunately it was while I was sunk in the lime grove that Royston took the opportunity to art direct the Chief Executive’s TV appearance, sending her to the far end of the Long Water, so as to be nearer the Wren facade. Displeasure might have arisen.

I didn’t very much like the Butterworth garden, although it was a massive effort, brought off in only six weeks. Harsh contrasts of colour and texture. There were some charming small gardens. Maybe their budgets have been slashed hence no the beastly hard landscaping which is always horrible. A children’s corner showed flowers in jam jars and allotments (also adults), including the no-dig allotment. The absolute glory was the Tom Stuart-Smith garden, really the best show garden I’ve ever seen. Just a basic patch (no hard landscaping) with packed down paths and a scheme of silver blue with the faintest touch of orange provided by, of all things, red-hot pokers, but these ones were orange and emphasis lent by threads of Liatris pycnostachya, which is a firm fresh green upright feather, and scratchy silver trees.  It was faultless, utter utter heaven.

The Luncheon Table at Hampton Court

The Luncheon Table at Hampton Court

The No-Dig Allotment

The No-Dig Allotment

The Butterworth Garden, Hampton Court

The Butterworth Garden, Hampton Court

Crashed Aeroplane: a 'Save the Planet' Installation

Crashed Aeroplane: a ‘Save the Planet’ Installation

Tom Stuart-Smith Garden: Utter, utter Heaven

Tom Stuart-Smith Garden: Utter, utter Heaven

Tom Stuart-Smith Garden: Complete Heaven

Tom Stuart-Smith Garden: Complete Heaven

 

 

 

 

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Their Plight

Tuesday 22nd June 2021

Some things I forgot to mention: Royal Gardening. Royal gardening is when you go out after tea and engage in gardening either in the tidying direction, such as dead-heading, or full-scale destruction or trying to tie back a spiky bush that has fallen forward. There is a strict time-limit, however. Although extensive equipment will have been marshalled, after a maximum of 20 minutes, one of the Royal persons will say, ‘I think that’s enough for the time being,’ whereupon the entire assemblage of Royalties will go back indoors. Any debris produced is left for the other gardeners to deal with.

The next thing is the monthly lawyer’s bill: Ralph Kitto was telling me he is on such a scheme. Others have monthly bills such as electricity or mortgage or rent. Only a few have a monthly lawyer’s bill. It is ideal for protracted disputes, such as with other members of one’s family. Often you fork out thousands and thousands, for no result whatsoever. The Gay Mother, come to think of it, has a similar arrangement but not monthly. In this case, the reason for engaging the lawyer in the first place has been long forgotten.

A few weeks ago, Harry Rollo gave a performance. It was a triumph for range and rarity and even just to have it at all, with an oddly face-bandaged audience with gaps, as if they’d all been horribly wounded in World War 1 and some had not survived at all. So a War-Wounded benefit event. Unfortunately I’d been plunged into trauma shortly before the performance. People come to visit one and sometimes one dreads what news they will bring. This one said the situation would not be discussed and then proceeded to discuss it, or rather to make alarming pronouncements which were terrifyingly declared as not to be discussed.

I was plunged into acute nervous attack. Later, at the event after the perf, after a few, I began to wail on the shoulder on Miss Lamore Cellina who had compared Harry’s perf so brilliantly. It was terrible really, for the suffering of the performers is beyond imagination. ‘It’s hell enough being a performer,’ she said. ‘Now this.’ If you can’t perform continually your art fades, not just your fingering, your technique. The nourishing flow between performer and audience is what keeps the coat in show condition, the eyes shining. Without that, the performer begins to die. Then suddenly to give a performance is an immense strain. But Harry had managed it superbly. Some significant performers, Miss Lamore said, have had to become Amazon drivers. The other thing is money. They don’t have any. Nothing forthcoming from the Government. So it’s Amazon driver or starve.

Dreadful.

Harry, accompanied by Mercury, Mr Kitten, has left for Mexico. Their return will be improvised.

I’m much preoccupied with the Duchess of Windsor, formerly Mrs Edward Simpson. I’m to do a 3 hour piece to camera: ‘Wallis Windsor: Hero or Villain? ‘

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Life

Thursday 10th June 2021

So we’re having Life now. This is what we were preserved for.

Last night I did my garden opening – this was timed entry with glass of wine, unlike the Sunday afternoon opening I’ve done annually since 2012.

Liked it.

What I forgot to say was that the opening of Life was a dinner at Ralph Kitto’s on 21st May. He’s sold all the Damien Hirsts, you know. They’ve been turned into money. A lot of it. ‘Such a relief,’ Ralph said. The Medicine Cupboard oppressed him with its worth. There’d been a terrific renovation drama a few doors down from Ralph’s only a day or two before. A flatti was almost at the end of a terrific renovation. Gays, of course.  The final touches were a conservation product for the floors. Whoosh! The whole place went up in flames. Highly inflammable product. Luckily a passer-by called the Brigade before the entire block went up. The victim was one of the other guests, who looked incredibly fresh despite his ordeal and a minimum of six months to put it all right again, including the wiring which is wrecked.  Ludovico said he was a Russian billionaire but there was no sign of it. Only a secretary was mentioned, who is South African. He seemed to have insurance in the usual way and the usual perspective of the insurance company that they weren’t going to pay. There was no hint of a private army or a range of poisons that might be useful.

This Russian billionaire was charming in a friendly knit.

Tremendous talk at the table: secretaries, early check-in, villas abroad, to be rented or bought. A wonderful arc flung up, way above all the horror below. It’s been going on all the time but nobody knows about it. The great engines that really drive everything, the money houses, the schemes, the projections…. unstoppable. Nothing will stop them.

Val phoned from Moscova, Hastings this week. ‘I’ve begun my vaccine journey,’ he announced. It’s only the second part of the vaccine journey that’s an obstacle since journeying to Eastbourne is required. Val says it would ruin him to go to Eastbourne. Val said that one does not simply do things nowadays, one goes on a ‘journey’. Also friends and relations have been replaced by ‘Loved Ones’. We recalled that Evelyn Waugh wrote a book called ‘The Loved One’ which is a devastating laceration of the funeral business in Los Angeles. How did it get to be that we’ve all got Loved Ones in England? ‘Loved Ones’ is a ghastly marketing expression from American funeral brochures.

 

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Still Asking

Wednesday 2nd June 2021

You may remember I wrote to the Prime Minister, who is called Boris Johnson, to ask why we are being kept alive. No reply, of course. I thought it was normal, even expected, to question government policies, whatever they are. Isn’t that what parliament is for? What if I, and others, don’t want to stay alive? Have we got to?

Just recently my nerves have been so bad, I’ve longed to die. A bit better now.

I should have mentioned that the Nizam doesn’t like soufflés. He also didn’t like the soda bread I made to the recipe Laura Malcolm found, didn’t like so badly he bought a different loaf.  Robert Nevil let slip about the soufflés, omitting through lack of recall, perhaps, that the reason it is known that the Nizam doesn’t like soufflés is that soufflé was the welcome dinner on Christmas Eve when they came to stay, made by me in my desperate struggle with the strict Hindu diet.

Those were candle-lit days, long ago now.

The Nizam does like Egg and Chips. But not when the chips are over-ovened to a crisp because the non-Hindus are tormenting some bits of chicken and not paying attention.

Robert Nevil and the Nizam have returned to their proper home now.

I attended the Press Preview of the Field of Cloth of Gold Exhib at Hampton Court. This morning it was Diana’s Wedding Dress at KP. I saw the Royal Helicopter on the lawn at the back of the Palace. A man was lounging in it. Eventually he strolled over to the crowd waiting behind the fence. ‘You’re very welcome to wait,’ he said, ‘but we’re not going anywhere until this afternoon.’ It was then 11 a.m. So Royal.

We had a reunion lunch with the Laird and Lairdess in a pub near Newbury. I attended a concert at the Ragged School with Kalesnikov and Mark Padmore sang Winterreise. Then I was with the Gay Mother for nearly a week. But all the time racking strain and worry.

Maybe it’s easier to be ‘locked’. I was told by a young person that everyone he knows dreads going back to work. They would prefer to stay forever with TV at home being paid for by the Government. I’ve always thought having to do a ‘job’ perfectly ghastly. Such an intrusion on one’s time. Now I find I was right. Nobody loves their work. All the rubbish about ‘passion’ for producing school prospectuses or whatever it is people do. I’ve already had outfit worries and exclusion worries and schedule worries. When ‘locked’ I was spared all those.

But mostly it’s the destruction of society and the dread that it will never end or be re-destroyed all over again. When we’re at the worst it can only get better. When we get better, it might plunge again, especially if Dr Susan Mitchie and Professor Christina Pagel have their way. It’s got beyond a question of who is right and who is wrong. There’s no doubt that we have been treated as units in a public health scheme, deliberately tortured by propaganda and fear-mongering, considered incapable of making up our own minds or taking responsibility, ostracised and vilified if we dare to even question the orthodoxy. The real horror is that the vast majority have fallen for it, those leaning Left who ought to be in the forefront of rebellion, leading the way.

 

 

 

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Spraying

Thursday 20th May 2021

Many in their loveliness claim to find virtue and goodness in that thing that must never be mentioned – ‘l..kd..wn’. I’m not one of them. There are ordinary household sprays that used to be anti-bacterial and suddenly became 99.9% anti-viral too. What about that 0.1% missing though? Can we risk it? They were intended as front-line armoury against viral attack, one of the many orthodoxies of our agony that turned out to be wrong. I never used them before but needless to say was among the first to plunge in. As you know, I’ve always been dead against bacteria and viruses in any case.  In the event,  I’ve mainly been virally spraying after the cleaner has been – just in case she’s coated everything in virus. Then, the other day, I had a brain wave at the sink. The dish cloth smelling first thing in the morning has plagued me for years. I’ve tried boiling it but nothing works. It’s back smelling in no time. In the end the only hope was to replace. My sudden vision was to spray it last thing at night with the anti-viral spray. Miracle. In the morning, not smelling. I’ve had a cloth going for almost three weeks on this basis. Incredible. I’ve also got a little bowl beside the sink where the scouring sponge and saucepan cleaner sit. That gets rank too. But not when blitzed with viral spray. With the cloth, I thought to experiment whether it makes a difference if only sprayed on one side not both. That’s the next stage, although I do doubt that mentally I will be up to it.

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