Chapter Thirty-Seven
KENSINGTON PALACE
Bash and The Barking Bulldozer,
You are both formally invited to Highgrove for the last weekend of April. James, Vidal, the two of you, three days, no press, no Benton after six p.m. I’ve told the kitchen to account for Lex’s caloric requirements, which I understand are roughly equivalent to those of a mid-sized draught horse.
Now. A practical matter. Benton reminded me quite forcefully that it is tradition at Highgrove for the household staff to unpack guests’ luggage upon arrival.
He then looked at me with an expression I can only describe as containing deep wells of pre-emptive suffering.
Through this I understood that he was asking me to ask you, without him having to say the actual words, to please leave the Murano glassware at home.
I realise this is a significant ask. I am aware that Vidal’s gift has become, by all accounts, load-bearing infrastructure in your relationship.
So should you find yourselves in urgent need of sensual aids during your stay, I am informed (and I want to stress that I did not seek this information; it was volunteered to me by Vidal at a volume that carried across two state rooms and a corridor) that there is a woodworker in the Cotswolds who produces bespoke items from sustainably sourced English hardwoods. He does commissions.
Alternatively, Lex, I understand from the Duke that he gave you a blackthorn walking stick during one of your visits to Chatham House.
It is a handsome piece of wood with a substantial heft and grip.
I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely observing that the English aristocracy have been making do with the contents of the gun room and the tack room for centuries, and that there is a proud tradition of resourcefulness in the great houses of this nation that I see no reason to abandon now.
Come to Highgrove. Bring Florence. Bring the flat cap. Bring each other.
Love you heaps, you ridiculous men.
JAMS