Chapter Five: B Day.

 

A sweet Valentine’s Day spent saying goodbye to the wife and daughter. This is the hard bit, saying farewell and leaving home.  Tania and I wept copiously through the last episode of War and Peace.  Lily went off to see a strange group which had Tickling in the title.

Now it’s D Day. Or Bidet as the French call it.   For the next three days I shall be in the air.   I take off Monday night and I arrive Wednesday morning.   What happens to Tuesday?  I cross the International Date Line (named after Jerry Hall) and magically Tuesday disappears.

It all seems so unfair.   I am told I shall get it back on my return, but will I have to apply for it?  Or will I have to fill in some government form to claim it?   And if I do get it back, will it still be a Tuesday or just some other random day, like a wet Wednesday or a soggy Saturday?   These things worry me.  I will have to write to Deepak.  I’m sure he’ll have some advice about the Quantum of Qantas.

While I’m gone what will you all do? Wait anxiously by the phone for news?  Lovingly search Twittergram for snaps taken by fellow passengers?   Binge watch something nasty and violent on TV, like the Republican debates?  Well, you’re just going to have to man up, or woman up, or, alright transgender up, and face this absence on your own.  I can’t do everything for you.  Although I have prepared a little something for you.   Think of it as a light repast or late supper in case you are starved of news from the Tour.

January was a rotten month when I lost another friend.   I have been thinking a lot about David Bowie.   We shared a very unlikely friendship in the eighties and nineties, with many great times on holiday.  People don’t know that he had the greatest sense of humour.  He loved to laugh.  And he laughed loudly and often.

In 1991 he was kind enough to loan me his beautiful Balinese home on the island of Mustique for six weeks while I wrote a movie. (Splitting Heirs.) I can’t begin to describe the beauties of this house, or the amazing views, perched high on a hillside overlooking the Caribbean.  But this is the cheeky letter I wrote to thank him for our delicious stay…..

 

Britannia Bay House,

Mustique,

West Indies.

April 10th 1991

Dear David,

Just leaving the house.  One or two things.  The fire is nearly out.   I think the hillside looks better all bare and black, and Arne agrees.   It’s a sort of Japanesey look, but post-Hiroshima.    About twenty minutes post, but at least it’s not radioactive, unless there was something toxic in the Octagonal Room, which is still blazing nicely. It’s almost a shame to put it out.

The open air dining area will be much more pleasant too, as soon as we clear the rubble from the remains of the roof.  Fortunately we had concreted over those smelly old fish ponds to give you a nice cement patio area, for disco dancing or barbecue, and we were able to get some real artificial straw umbrellas in red and yellow, so there is a nice Spanish “feel” about the whole entrance place now.  And the little straw donkeys are very welcoming instead of all that Balinese Buddhist bullshit, if you’ll pardon my French.  As a special gift we’re going to get your name on a bullfight poster – don’t ask us how, it’s our treat.

We made one or two other slight “alterations” while we were here.  No need to thank us, it’s been our pleasure modernising the place and making it look a bit more like it belongs.   Tan and I had just visited the Ideal Home Exhibition so we are “up” on the latest developments in home improvements.     First of all, all that old wood had to go.    It had little holes in it, probably made by woodworm. It looked like it had come from Thailand or some other unfortunate third world place where they can’t get decent hardboard.

“Thighland, more like,” laughed Doreen, who has been helping us with the decor. Anyway, we made a nice big bonfire of that and have replaced it all with top grade washable white Formica.   It looks as clean and nice as Lionel Blair. And about as useful Doreen wanted me to add.

The rest of the woodwork we have painted a cheery orange, and there really is an Ibiza-during-German-Week feeling to the place.

“David’s going to like this” said Doreen, “it has all the warmth of a Berlin detox ward, with none of the company.”

Fritz, the new Butler, is very friendly and knows some quite good marching songs from the War, where he served with distinction in the S.S.   I’m afraid we had to let Joel go, it wasn’t fair to keep him on. He just couldn’t “dig” the improvements.  Tragic really, but if you can’t “go with the flow man, you’re history babe” as Doreen said when she told Mr. Webb to leave.  He refused to serve fish fingers or baked beans.   Imagine!   So we’ve stocked up the freezer with Big Macs and the microwave’s been burning overtime.

After we finished the redecoration (and the Rangoon room looks stunning now we chucked out all that heavy furniture and livened it up with scatter cushions and bean bags, very Sixties…!) the floors looked kind of bare so we put down some nice Cyril Lord, with maroon flecks, that will “wear” well even though the basic violet takes a little getting used to.  But as Doreen says, if you’re gonna stay ahead in style you’re gonna have to take a few risks.  Personally I think the diamante dogs on the ceiling are a bit much, but Doreen said anybody who can appear in front of the British public wearing only carrot hair and a jock strap is not going to baulk at a few fey gestures on the ceiling.

Oh, curtains.  All that sliding screen business just felt too foreign for Doreen, so she’s run up some lovely fabric she had sent in from Beatty’s in Birmingham.    It’s called “Our Queen”, and I think you’ll be very happy with it.   The corgis too should remind you of the dogs, the last of whom, even now is burning in the Octagonal Room.   How we shall miss his yelping.  But as Doreen said, “I’m not risking these shoes just to save a dying animal.”

The rest of the staff have run away, but Chlorine and Mrs Reid are coming, and as Doreen said, they may not be any good, but they did work for Princess Margaret.

The plastic tiling will be here any day to replace the weedy “flowers” that had grown up everywhere.  “You could hardly move for bloody plants” said Doreen, and she ripped away for days,  and her with her back too.  But she’s a martyr to it when she’s got the bit between her teeth.

“And don’t ask which bit” she just cackled.   She does have a marvelous sense of humour for someone from near Birmingham.

Well must dash.  I have to leave before Basil and the Mustique company find out we’re going.   Our little joke on them:   we’re leaving without paying!   How they’ll laugh eh?   Naughty us.  But what with all the champagne and lobsters it was getting a bit too much…..!   If they come running to you just you tell them it was nothing to do with you.  They’ll only get spoiled if people pay all the time.   And I bet you that Basil has a bob or two tucked away.  If only that jellabiya could talk.  I said to Doreen, “I bet that’s seen some action.”

“Served under the Royals” she said curtly, and I think we knew what she meant. She was cheeky enough to ask him if anything was worn under the jellabiya, and he said “No, everything’s in perfect working order!”

Laugh?   We almost wet ourselves.

Oh the other night a Kitty Kelly was over for dinner and she wanted to know all the poop on you, “just for a giggle.”  It was just harmless gossip and she promised it wouldn’t go any further, so we let go a few ripe anecdotes.    Were your ears red?   Anyway, we tended to exaggerate, especially the bits about you and the llama, and she seemed very impressed and wrote everything down, but still, no harm done eh?

Well chuck, it’s been a pleasure, and we’ve certainly had some laughs.   The fire’s almost out now, and the whole place looks lovely, all orange against the blackened hillside.

Let’s hope we can come back again soon and really finish the job,

lots of love from Eric, Tania, Lily (and

 

 

 

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