Today I went back to the room where five diverse characters have been waiting for two months. They are of course the people in my new book Summers Grace. They are to be drawn together by Georg Frederick Handel in the drawing room at Kensington palace in December 1742. One of them has made an exquisite harpsichord that Mr Handel is to play for the first time after the stroke he suffered the year before. It was so incredible to get back to them and put them in a coach and let them out , they had been incarcerated for three months, and were getting very restive. Anyway today I let them out and boy, were they all in for a surprise? I think it was the spin off from the disgusting Notting Hill Carnival, (apparently it still smells of wee up there) which sent me scurrying back to them all. My characters all have a mind of their own actually, but at least they create beauty and not ugliness.
Waiting for Dado would be a good title for a book, the latter is Italian and Italians are always late, which is half their charm, of course they are a delight, and these are blood relations and we love them. But at least two meals are now congealed in the never ending catering department in our house. I have always hated late August and September, it is a bad time for me, all world wars start in August and look its happening again. There must be a scientific reason for this. The S.O. has been very combative as well, I wondered if he had picked up some of the vernacular from Noel Cowards clever play Private Lives which we have just seen. These one liners do not fit happily into the assault course of our particular life. It’s hard to engage in them when you are wading through dirty sheets. Beatrice ( the dog) suffered no ill effects from the laughing gas cylinder which was considerately left for her by one of the Carnival revellers. Why would anyone want to pay for gas inhalation? I have heard of somewhere you are given it for free courtesy of The Monster Assad. God must think this the height of depravity, says it all really.
Two young men set out from here to go “Canivarling” in Notting Hill, which in my opinion should be called Notting Hell. They have not yet returned, and do not respond to any form of communication. A friend of mine resides quite near to the centre of these mindless festivities and could not vacate her beautiful home because some of these adorable revellers had defecated on her doorstep. I am told the rubbish left by the party goers will be costing the tax payer many thousands of pounds to clear . There is fall out here as well Beatrice my dog who eats weird things as per the Tampax was just running about with a laughing gas cylinder…. Oh dear!
All of these are connected in a random sort of way. The Anniversary was a splendiferous affair and the Sainted One pulled out all the stops, red roses, gifts and dinner at the in a very exotic venue. The only thing was that the conversation strayed to the subject of assisted suicide, this did not go down well with “moi” as I have always thought that was a tricky subject, and certainly not suitable for celebratory occasions . Then it strayed a little into the merits of the veil. Now this I have often thought might be very useful as one gets older, I suggested this as a possible subject for discussion and my reasons for the subtle use of this accessory and I got a rather suspicious glazed look, after that there was a rather frosty atmosphere. As a matter of fact I am reading a wonderful book suggested by my friend at John Sandoe , the best book shop in London ( the whole world in fact), it is written by Kurban Said ,a pseudonym. This is a narrative which comes at an understanding of Islam in a very gentle and authentic way. It is called Ali and Nino a must read.
This brings me to another of my splendid grandsons who is residing here before doing a doctor ship in river ecology; he is presenting a thesis on the coexistence of the Perch and the Water Flea, the latter has a spur on its back rendering it unpalatable for equine consumption . This to me illustrates perfectly the basic theory that we must all be coexistent which of course means tolerance, which is a fine thing; but whoever it was who robbed my surrogate mother’s grave of its beautiful black Marble headstone in a beautiful Sussex cemetery, will be for ever cursed for this act of vandalism. Read my lips, they will be, if the villain is chopping onions on it as we speak, they will weep bitter tears, and it won’t be the onions.
My dog Beatrice has an eating disorder, she likes to eat everything except the food which is lovingly prepared for her. She has a particular liking for biros of any colour , and handbags which are left on the floor by elegant guests, the other day the Literary agent of the year came to dinner; she was rightly proud of her new Handbag. When she put her hand down to retrieve it after dinner, it was minus both handles, she was exquisitely polite about it and refused compensation. This was bad enough, but Beatrice, ( the dog) chose another handbag this week, it was the contents that attracted her most. She rummaged about for a bit and chose a Tampax, this she began to consume at the Sainted Ones feet during luncheon. The SO, who professes not to know anything about such things, noticed this and immediately reproved moi down the crowded table, inexplicable crimes are always laid at my door. This made matters even more embarrassing, because one on the guests observed the offending item and suggested that the owner of the Tampax could not possibly be moi. Of course I thought this was hilarious; actually I do know a very phony woman who wears maternity clothes although she is all of seventy five, she remarked the other day, in the hinterland in which she resides both mentally and geographically, that people often thought she was pregnant. Some people should be taken to Peter Jones and made to try on bathing suits in the three way mirror. Fat Mate just fat….! but that is not Beatrice’s problem, the vet has cracked it , all Beatrice’s food must be served off a china plate and slightly warmed. I did once hear of a man whose eyes popped out when he achieved sexual pleasure , he apparently always carried a silver spoon in his pocket, which had to be warmed and gently oiled to put them back. I don’t know if this is true, but it is hard to imagine the scenario, eyes on the pillow and the silver spoon being whipped out off the bedside table, or perhaps he kept the silver spoon ????? well you all know what I mean.