DIARY
THE DUCHESS OF YORK
Time. The very essence of it can slip by without so much as a moment of respect. On Monday, 4 August I left a magical Tus- can farmhouse high on a hill and returned to Wentworth to attend the `Duchess of York's Golf Tournament' — fast becoming an annual event — for the Motor Neurone Disease Association. MND is the most debilitating, devastating, muscle-wasting disease, which waits for no man. (Stephen Hawking is one of the longest sufferers.) Andrew — steadfastly loyal to me and his Scottish Mutual team — started his victori- ous round dead on time, having already made sure that he had wished his grand- mother a happy birthday in the morning. Later, in the evening, all 25 teams celebrat- ed their rounds — particularly Andrew, as his team were the winners by ten points. The association received £45,000. I have always promised to keep shouting on behalf of the sufferers of MND, to raise awareness on the road to finding a cure. After spending a week with one of my guests who has Parkinson's disease, I am now hell-bent on seeing how or if I can help that cause too. To see a man with such a golden spirit willing his tired body forward is, without question, an inspiration never to give up the fight for every moment of life.
Tuesday. Having fitted in a shoot for Weightwatchers, we all returned to Italy in the evening to prepare for Beatrice's birth- day on 8 August. An orchestra of crickets heralded our return to harmony. Andrew and I believe so much in this new Ameri- canism of co-parenting, and there is no question that we have more fun than the children, as inevitably I am left to finish the latest 'paint-by-numbers' and Papa is left balancing dangerously on one of the inflat- ables floating on the swimming-pool — the blue water is certainly not in sight as 'Dino' floats after 'Pongo' et al.
The red, earthy, laterite soil was kicked up as Andrew, Beatrice and Eugenie headed off into the distant Tuscan hills on their way to join HMY Britannia as she sailed around the Western Isles. I was agonisingly aware of the heartache I felt when they left. It remind- ed me of the same feeling I had when my mother used to leave for Argentina. I always enjoyed the magic of my stay on the yacht, the stillness of the calm nights, the gentle swaying in the Scottish waters. I was able to relive my experience when I explained to my Children how their days would be spent with a little extra help thrown in from Dis- ney's The Lion King when Simba's father tells him to always look up to the stars when in need of comfort and solace. The Italian locals have opened all their doors and their hospitality has been endless — my new friends, Sybilla and Gaddo della Gherardesca, are ceaseless in their kindness to make my stay unique. I often wonder if the English would be quite so generous back in Blighty. Pine trees: nuts. Fig trees: figs (how Alan Bates ate them in Women in Love!). Olive trees: olives and oils. Sunflowers: more oils. Grapes: my favourite Cervaro. Pasta: spaghetti, taglierini, linguine. Meats: Parma ham. With every smell, I smell food. With every sight, I see food. I can almost hear food. I want to spade the whole lot through my mouth at Mach 2. Basta! How can I then launch my Weight- watcher 1, 2, 3 on 1 September? I am sup- posed to be a paradigm of a weight-loser — perhaps the only thing I am allowed to add to being a loser. It will drive me crazy having to resist all that Italian food. I will have to get into a strait-jacket at night so that I won't be able to raid the obese (my least favourite adjective) fridge. But a brilliant idea comes to mind from reading Hello!. I see the Queen of Sweden wear- ing a T-shirt with a supermodel figure in a bikini printed on it — maybe Weight- watchers won't notice if I put one on at the launch!
T0 return to my guest with Parkinson's disease, which is very close to MND. Per- haps not everyone is like Stephen Hawking, but they all deserve our fight for a cure not to mention humour. My guest was cer- tainly not diminished in this when he was introduced to a rather upper-class English- man who had come to stay with some aris- tocratic Italians. The Englishman was asked where he lived and he let slip '4,000 acres under plough', and then he ploughed on and on. No longer able to contain his irritation, my guest asserted, `So you are a bit of a prat then', but only managed to stutter it through. 'Oh yes,' the Englishman replied with mild satisfaction, 'I am a mem- ber of Pratt's.' After my arrival in Tuscany, I received many invitations to dinner from the local aristos. It is a refreshing emotion to feel wanted and I accepted everything reckless- ly. Then after the endless dinners, during which I met countless counti and contesse and masses of marchesi and marchese, I began to suspect that they did not necessar- ily embrace me, but were just curious about this wild redhead. I hope I satisfied their curiosity.
Ilike to paint and paint well, but some- how don't get it quite right. My pines and cypresses just don't look quite like pines and cypresses. I imagine I can cheat with all the paint-by-numbers that I have brought out for my children. Isn't it wonderful to see good results? Across the sea, I can just manage to make out the island of Elba which makes me think about being in exile. It is terrible to be in exile. I only want to read about all those who come out of exile in triumph, but not even Napoleon did, so perhaps I should not be so excited. I pine for my darling children who are on the yacht, and those unwelcome thoughts of being in exile return.
Ihave just been invited to the Palio this Saturday. I am very excited at the thought of seeing Siena and some supreme horse- manship. I adore horses and sometimes I feel that they are my best friends as they seem to understand me. How I wish they could talk. They would not be heard at the Palio with all the crowds and excitement. It will be a perfect occasion to scream without drawing attention to oneself.
Isuddenly realise that the local police have been concerned for my well-being. They have been very hospitable and I wish I knew who to thank in Italy for their sup- port. Isn't it strange that when the police used to surround me all the time, I didn't miss them, but now having lost them for some time, I rather like them being around. How ungrateful we sometimes are — and how vain.
Ihave two more weeks in Tuscany and am determined to learn about Florence. It is daunting that there is so much to learn, and even more daunting that I know so little — I will try to swot up. I am leafing through Dante and already have found it satisfying to discover that Beatrice, my first daughter's name, is the loved one. I can now be preten- tious and call out her name with an Italian accent. More research is needed for Euge- nie now.
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