High life
A lost weekend . . .
Talu
Lucca hishis ancient walled town has seen many an invader throughout the centuries, but last weekend it got good and blitzkrieged by young Brits, and the locals are still try- ing to figure out what hit them. The occa- sion was the Hugh Warrender/Beatrice Vincenzini nuptials (see No life, too), the bride being a Tuscan heiress whose father threw caution to the wind by inviting more than 1,400 people. As one can imagine, organising a three-day weekend involving more people than a regiment is quite a task. Made even harder by the fact that some of the British guests were unfamiliar with the Italian language, were dressed in a manner more becoming a riot than a wed- ding, referred to the locals as spaghetti benders, and tipped as generously as victo- rious Soviet soldiers did upon entering Berlin in the spring of 1945.
Just kidding. The fun began on Friday when a chartered plane flew 148 of us from London to Pisa — basically the only way to travel: knowing everyone on board — and continued in Lucca at a 'Mediaeval Bachelor Party' in some rather grand ancient stables. That is when the Charge of the Light Brigade took place. There is nothing quite like the look on Hooray Henry faces when encountering unlimited free food and wine. While the Italians stood aside and stared in wonder, the booze and food disappeared quicker than you can say freebie. Personally, I went into town later on and had a marvellous post- midnight snack in the piazza with some Italian and Greek friends.
On Saturday a friend of mine, Olivier° Prunas, had us all come up to his house high up in the hills above Lucca. Actually he owns the village and has houses scat- tered all over the hills. From his magnifi- cent farm house we could see Livorno and the sea, however bleary-eyed from a very long night. The sun was shining and the lunch was marvellous, but it was the young Italians that made my day. Names such as Ruspoli, Torlonia and Borghese, all of whose fathers and uncles and grandfathers I was friends with. It made me feel very, very old. But not old enough not to 'hit' on everything that had a pulse, according to an observer. Mind you, I even thought of proposing to Marcella, Lady Dashwood, the widow of Sir Francis, who lives in the most beautiful house in England, but thought better of it.
That evening came the ball for 1,400. Well, believe it or not, I overdid things. At one moment I had a chat with the divine Violet Fraser. Never have I seen such beauty as well as brains. But I fumbled. We were having a serious discussion about something I haven't the foggiest idea about, and, alas, she asked me a question that I did have the answer to (perhaps to do with happiness) but was unable to artic- ulate. My brain was unable to transmit sig- nals to make my mouth muscles move. The best I could do was slur not to expect Keats after midnight, an obviously disappointing answer, and soon Violet had fled.
But there was always Hortensia Visconti, a girl I've been tracking for a long time but have not pinned down yet. She, too, fled in horror at the zombie the poor little Greek boy turns into when under the influence. Not to mention the lovely and sweet Sere- na Linley, whom I've only recently met with her husband David, who is on a book tour (and a great book it is), and who ran the fastest upon encountering me. Needless to say, the worst was yet to come. With very little sleep, and a Karamazovian hang- over the likes I've never felt before, I packed my meagre belongings but left ray diary behind. Talk about a lost weekend. The last weekend made it a lost year. I was planning one day to publish my diaries, but the year 2000 shall not be included. Still, it was fun while it lasted. On Monday I flew to the Bagel on BA. British Airways is once again the best air- line in the world. First class is wonderful and so is club, with individual seats which become beds. The head steward gave me a tour and explained how in the near future all the transatlantic flights will have beds in first and club class. Ditto for South Africa. Not that my fellow passengers, Sir Paul McCartney and Spiro Niarchos, will be fly- ing club any time soon. And now, how to get through the pre-Christmas parties and still have something left for New Year's Eve
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