What began as an indulgent feast with Thomas on Friday slowed down to a crawl on Saturday as a Caribbean storm sent bands of severe rain over us for two days, hampering movement but not the drag show. I made a very brief appearance on Saturday for Thomas' sake and just who was at the top of the grand staircase with a margarita in hand? Yes, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish, with a grin that only a social matron who had just chewed through her leather bed restraints and escaped could have had.
I stayed away from everything except KiKi on Sunday and it was sublime as I received this beautiful photo of my beloved Jeremy on a mountain overlooking Bogota; it looks as striking as he says it is. He's fine and happy.

Then, I received an email from Neil Bull announcing that the BBC was sending him back to Miami Beach to run their Latin American operations for a few months and that, as "chief of staff of the 1st British Gay Huzzahs", he would take over the role of Mrs. Astor's captain during that stay. (Wise man; he copied Jeremy who immediately gave his consent to our friend.) I don't need another scandal like the one that raised its ugly head after I gushed about the ravishingly handsome Captain Marc of the Poles and had Jeremy rattle his sword so loudly the wild parrots took off to Boca.