Last breakfast in Lisbon before legging it to the airport.

Yesterday we spent the morning on the No. 1 red tram, winding up and down impossibly narrow streets in the humble Alfama district. At times we were so close to the shops we went past, I could have reached out of the window and taken a leg of lamb.

One of the trade-offs of leaving the East Coast of Australia, with its big, booming, spraying surf, was European travel. I made a bucket list very early on and I am almost done, with a handful of destinations left to see. It has been a wonderful adventure. I have dragged all the family along, as much as they were willing. The children, as fledglings, were duped into thinking that these vacations were “great fun”, but despite the occasional ice cream to bribe them, it was a lot of walking, looking, experiencing, sleeping…walking, looking, experiencing, sleeping and it went on. They saw a lot and now they love it too.

Our wedding in April, 1989, was a blur and stressful, as so few of my tribe were there. I had the honeymoon to look forward to after being the centre of attention. Ah, perhaps that is why I was so uncomfortable with Geoffrey’s musical soirees. He was the centre of attention. Something I loathe. Unless I am in actress mode, when I become someone else and entertain with funny stories.

Our honeymoon was in Tuscany, Italy. My favourite film up to that time was “A Room with a View” (1985), based on a favourite novel by E.M. Forster. Vintage performances from Judi Dench, Maggie Smith, Helena Bonham Carter and Daniel Day Lewis. They have stayed in the spotlight for all these years. National treasures. 

I adored those period films before and after my exile: adaptations of – Forster (Maurice, Howard’s End, Where Angels Fear to Tread, A Passage to India); Henry James (Age of Innocence, The Portrait of a Lady); Oscar Wilde (The Importance of Being Earnest, An Ideal Husband), Jane Austen (Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility) and Kazuo Ishiguro (Remains of the Day). And all with our Brit favs: Anthony Hopkins, Emma Thompson, Hugh Grant, Alan Rickman, Hugh Laurie, Judi Dench, Maggie Smith, Colin Firth, Kate Winslet and some of the Hollywood lot donned posh voices and joined in – Reese Witherspoon and Cate Blanchett spring to mind. 

But A Room with a View is my Number One. One evening, snuggled up to Geoffrey after he’d popped the question some days before, I told him how I adored that film, made by the amazing Merchant Ivory Productions. It is romance on steroids.

The Arno (river) flowing under the ancient Ponte Vecchio bridge in Florence: where Lucy (who is a Sloane essentially, played by Bonham Carter) faints after seeing an intense argument between two Italian men, which escalates to a stabbing and death. As she swoons, she is caught by George (who is working class). The backdrop is Florence: with all that history and naked statues everywhere. Overseen like a godfather by the monumental, terracotta, domed roof of the Duomo (cathedral).

Fast forward to a Tuscan hill side: where George manfully embraces Lucy, against her will initially, but she of course relents, as he kisses her passionately amongst the blue violets and poplars, whilst the other English guests from the pensione picnic elsewhere. Lucy pretends to be offended, but she really loves it.

Fast forward and now everyone is back in the English country side, Surrey, which is Home Counties, near to London and therefore not quite the right sort of country for some snobbish people. Lucy is engaged to a prudish, frigid, self-important Cecil (played by Daniel Day Lewis). George continues to kiss her from time to time and she eventually chucks Cecil and she and George get married. They end up honeymooning back in Florence. In the last scene they are sitting, framed by a window and George kisses his now wife, Lucy. Love is classless. Can I say more?

Geoffrey got it right for our honeymoon! Hint taken. We stayed at La Cisterna in San Gimignano. I had no idea at the time that the film “Where Angels Dare to Tread”, starring Helen Mirren, was predominantly filmed there. But the hill top view from our shuttered window of the olive groves and finger like poplars pointing to the sky, was just as good as the view that Lucy – Bonham Carter – had on her honeymoon in Florence. 

Nevertheless, this was my very first stint in Europe and I felt like a novice. I felt unsophisticated compared to the beauty around me. More of that tomorrow.

Today is travelling and collecting Domino from The Whippet Hotel and heading to Hampshire.    

Our final day in Lisbon. Yes, it is sunny again.

Yesterday we went to the charming towns of Estoril and Cascais on the Lisbon Riviera. We walked along the promenade and found a sea pool, not exactly like in Sydney, but in the same ilk. We walked past the marina and found a ramshackle restaurant perched above an emerald green inlet, facing a decaying mansion. Geoff ate grilled sardines. The old town in Lisbon is full of grand things decaying. And graffiti everywhere. However, in Cascais we located some mansions in pristine condition. And had a glimpse of what Lisbon would have been like in its heyday.

Wherever you go in the world, you find music, which like love, is part of the universal language. In Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night”, Orsino proclaims, “If music be the food of love, play on…” As we wandered around Lisbon, we were greeted by the sound of music on the street and from darkened restaurants.

One of the things that Geoff loved to do in the early days of our courtship and marriage was to serenade me. I found it intensely embarrassing. He would strum away and sing songs like “Lady in Red”, by Chris de Burgh and “Stuck on You”, by Lionel Ritchie. As Tony and Eve had so many children, they had double unisex loo cubicles (toilets) installed downstairs, so no one was caught out on the hop. To make me laugh, Geoff would come in and strum and sing whilst I was on the loo.  Whilst I found the whole Elvis-like renditions excruciating, his friends were, without exception, enthralled by his musical talents.

One outlet for Geoff’s musical prowess was Guy Fawkes Night or Bonfire Night, which is celebrated by the Brits on 5th November. It is the anniversary of foiling a Catholic conspiracy in 1605 to blow up the Houses of Parliament. A stuffed dummy of Guy Fawkes, who was caught with the explosives under the Houses, is placed on a bonfire and incinerated. Fireworks are part of the festivities. It was a male Wilmot tradition to build a humungous bonfire in the orchard at Stone House and have a big party. People would bring fireworks and wine.

I attended one of these bonfires shortly before our engagement. After the bonfire burnt down to glowing embers, Geoff, to my horror, brought out his guitar. There he was in his element, surrounded by a crowd, swaying away to his dulcet tones, sipping mulled wine. No one found it cheesy, except me. No doubt a cultural difference, I have yet to get to the bottom of.

I am sad to say that he played less and less as our marriage progressed. My apologies, Geoff, for smothering your talent!

Today we are going on a tram trip and to Belem to the monastery. Our last day before heading home.

      

Today it is sunny and hot in Lisbon, AGAIN. Yesterday we spent the morning in the Principe Real district, recommended to us by Inca, as she lived in Lisbon for a time whilst her father worked at the Peruvian Embassy. It is teeming with antique shops (ancient tiles) and art galleries.

We enjoyed a pleasant lunch in a Café Martinho Da Arc, opened in 1782, in the Praco do Comercio by the sea.  We had just returned to the hotel when we heard the most enormous “Boom”. It was thunder. For the next fifteen minutes we were spectators of a monumental electrical storm.

Large scale, majestic, terrifying thunder storms are commonplace in Australia. I love the offbeat song by GANGgajang, “This is Australia”, with the lyrics, “On the patio we sit, The humidity we breathe, We watch lightning crack over (sugar) canefields…”

Only 10 percent of Australia is inhabited and that includes the large tracts of land, which are grazing or arable land.

From the window of the many planes that have flown me home to Oz, I have gazed, amazed, at the sheer vastness of the uninhabited rust-red desert and the treeless grasslands that comprise so much of the interior. From hitting the coast at the top of Western Australia, to finally seeing settlement just before reaching Sydney, hours go by where there is no sign of life below. But, I would occasionally see thunderstorms and lightning striking the lifeless ground. No-one but goannas and kangaroos to witness the show. 

Lightning, as a child, meant get out of the water or be fried. It also meant bushfires if there was vegetation, especially eucalyptus trees, which release their seeds in the heat in order to reproduce. My parents, Stan and Bev, relocated from Sydney to the scenic Illawarra peninsula to settle near Shaun and his family in early 1999. The settlement along the peninsula is bookended by the sea on one side and a large, bushy ridge or escarpment on the other.

For one Christmas we were in Oz for the festive season and on the day itself, a huge cloud rolled in from the West. Not a rain cloud, it was smoke. The food stuck in our throats as we realised that out West people could be losing their homes and possibly their lives. Bush animals would be dying. The fires came precariously close to my brother’s, Shaun’s, house. Only the creek separated them from the flames. All it took was for a spark to fly over the water and it would have been curtains.

For days after we could see smouldering fires along the top of the ridge, threatening to erupt with a high wind and advance down to the houses. I was down at the beach with Shaun’s wife, Wendy and our children one morning in the early 2000s, when a huge helicopter came over the ridge. It was Elvis.

Elvis is a huge helicopter from Memphis that the Australian government hires during the summer bushfire season. It has a long nozzle like a mosquito, which sucks up to 9,500 litres of seawater and then spews it out on the flames. Everyone on the beach stopped their activities to watch the show and cheer Elvis on. In seconds the smouldering fires were quenched as Elvis chucked out its load of water. During these seasons the Australian Fire Brigade, including rescue fighter, Rob Kilham, work full throttle to save homes and lives.

Summer means surfing and sunshine and fun, but it is also a time of intense heartache for those who lose their homes or loved ones to bushfires. One summer I was down at the local fish and chips shop at Austinmer Beach, near Mum and Dad’s home, when an old bloke got out of his ‘ute (utility truck). He was covered head to toe in black soot and looked tired. I asked what had happened and he told me that he had disobeyed the fire brigade when he was ordered to evacuate. Instead, he had sat on the roof of his house all night and kept hosing it down as the street was engulfed in flames. The rest of the street burnt to the ground. This is the Aussie spirit. He told me, “I wasn’t bloody well going to lose my house!” A man’s house is his castle after all.

Today we are going to the Estoril and Cascais, seaside resorts, half an hour by train to the West of Lisbon.

The weather today is sunny and hot. Hot, hot, hot. I am in Lisbon, the capital of Portugal, with Geoffrey. No coat required today. Just a shirt and a smile. I am a happy Kangaroo.

On Friday we were reunited with our son, Hugo, home from Warwick where he is studying Chemistry. He seemed thinner and taller. A milimetre further into adulthood and away from being my baby boy. The dismay I automatically felt when I saw his unshaven face evaporated as soon as he smiled. Hugo has a great smile.

Even though it is sunny this morning in Lisbon, thunderstorms are forecast for this afternoon. The run up to our wedding in April 1989, was just the same. I was ecstatic to have found Geoffrey on the other side of the world, after all, what were the odds, but it was the other side of the world.

The top floor of a terraced house in Battersea, which I shared with Nicky in the first months of life in London, was not my natural habitat. Nor was the little house Geoff and I had bought not far away to start our married life. I grew up in suburbia. With space and jacaranda and eucalyptus trees and heat and barbeques and kidney shaped swimming pools. I spent my weekends in the sunshine, swimming in frothy, pounding surf or in sea pools carved out of the rocky headlands.

I was delighted to see the sun making diamonds on the Atlantic sea, as we ate our breakfast on the roof top terrace of our hotel. And then I felt the familiar thump of homesickness grip my chest. As Peter Allen’s song goes, “I still call Australia home…” I call England home too. Can you love two countries? Yes you can. I do.

Leaving Australia also meant leaving my family and friends. Would my family love Geoffrey? When I told my father, Stan, over the phone that I was marrying Geoffrey, he said, “Who the bloody hell is Geoffrey?”

You can imagine my nerves when Stan the Man and Bev, my mother, together with my brother, Shaun, and his wife, Wendy, arrived to meet Geoffrey for the first time in London. We went to Heathrow to meet them. The first thing we could see was the tip of surfboards. Both Shaun and Wendy surfed in those days and had planned to hit the waves in Cornwall. Stan was holding a pair of Ugg boots for Geoffrey. The Aussie Battler was meeting the toff.

Dad was a typical Aussie Battler. An Aussie Battler is the sort of bloke that does an honest day’s work and despite the odds, makes a go of it. They are “fair dinkum”, meaning honest, true and fair. Stan was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Bev’s family were the posher ones. He was born on the outskirts of the CBD (Central Business District) of Sydney. When I was growing up, people with money did not live in the small terraced houses fringing the CBD. They lived in leafy suburbs, preferably on the water. This all changed in the 90s when the yuppies moved into the terraces and those areas were gentrified.  The same thing is happening in Lisbon with urban regeneration in areas like Principal Real.

Today we are going to walk around town and have lunch down by the sea.

The weather is freezing again and the weekend is meant to be the same. And to think that last weekend I was beavering in the garden in sunshine.

Yesterday I met Flamenco at the Bluebird café, on Kings Road, for a catch­up. I met Flamenco in 2003, when Hugo started at Sussex House, his preparatory school, just behind Sloane Square. Flamenco is married to an important banker, M. As we stood on the pavement waiting for our boys to emerge from the Arts and Crafts building on Cadogan Square, we were often first and would smile at each other. Eventually we started to talk to each other. Eventually we started to have lunch together. Eventually we introduced our husbands to each other and eventually we became close friends, confidantes. Eventually we went on holiday with them and other Spanish friends to Andalusia. We were included in her large, lavish, stylish, relaxed parties at their incredible flat on the Thames.

Flamenco lives a big life, a scenic life. Every day is an adventure, to be grabbed with both hands. She is 100% engaged in the moment. Life is a full of family, friends (both in London and Spain), fashion, culture, politics, art, travel, skiing, food, all at an exceptional level. There is nothing mundane about multi­lingual Flamenco. Even how she appears: tall, regal, shiny dark hair, big smile, chocolate brown eyes and always dressed impeccably.

One of the main things we had in common was that we had married Brits. Like me, Flamenco had to navigate the terrain of British life in the 90s, but she did so on her terms. Becoming a pheasant was not on her radar. She made Chelsea her habitat, but she did not evolve, she adapted. I started off in Wandsworth, a stronghold for pheasants and stags. So while I was wearing Alice Bands and Russell and Bromley shoes, she no doubt was wearing Valentino and Lanvin. What are on her radar are new emerging designers, chefs and artists.

Whilst I was married in a meringue, Flamenco was married in couture. After Geoffrey proposed, I was in a state of euphoria. I was in love and intoxicated by it. The reality of leaving Aussie culture and the life I had known since dot was not something I thought about. Geoffrey became the centre of the universe and that was that. Even a bottle of wine and cheese on toast at the kitchen table was wonderful. If Geoffrey was near, I was ecstatic.

Shortly after we were engaged, we were due to have a quick drink with his sister, Rachel, at her flat in West London. I wore a demure shirt, but decided to team it with a black leather skirt. When the door opened to her flat, to my great horror, I found the Wilmot family assembled for a surprise engagement party. “Surprise,” they cried in unison. There was his mother, Eve, dressed in a floral Laura Ashley dress. And all Wilmot women were similarly attired. I spent the whole evening trying to pull my skirt over my knees. I did not fit in. My hair was too blonde, my face too freckly, my clothes all wrong. At some subliminal level I committed to evolving into a Wilmot woman, worthy of bearing Wilmot children. What a mistake. Authenticity is what I most value in a friend. And in Flamenco I found it in bucket loads.

After we moved to Limerston Street in Chelsea, I tapped back in to the sun drenched kid I had once been. The one with the skinny body and sunburnt freckly face, who ran around a scorched backyard (garden) with her dog Skipper and jumped in and out of swimming pools and the sea. But for some years from marriage onwards I remained a pheasant. But you can’t stop the Kanga from jumping out eventually.

Today Hugo is coming home from Warwick University where he is studying Chemistry. Tons of dirty laundry no doubt. I am having a coffee with my friend Inca. She is half Peruvian.

Lovely weather again today. Sunny and warm.

Yesterday I met my sister in law, Susan, for lunch at the Hurlingham, where she had her wedding reception in September, 1988. We had a quick whizz around the stunning gardens.

Dinner was with Mr and Mrs Springbok, our former South African neighbours, in Clapham. They have lived in their large Victorian house in the Abbeville Village for twenty eight years, after relocating from Johannesburg. Very informative discussion on South African infrastructure and politics. Mr Springbok’s family owned a property for generations in Nature’s Valley on the Garden route. Mrs Springbok is an exceptional chef. Beetroot rosti topped with salmon. Veal with mushroom sauce. Their daughters are in the supermodel league.

The day after we moved into our Clapham house in December 1995, I gave birth to Hugo. Anna was almost two. For the next 8 years, Mrs Springbok kept her protective eye us like a lioness. Our mutual displacement from the Southern Hemisphere forged a bond that has lasted twenty years.

The years before children, however, were dominated by working as a solicitor in the City, while not hanging out with the Gang. With the deregulation of financial institutions in 1986, the Big Bang, Antipodean lawyers flooded through immigration at Heathrow to make hay while the sun shone. They were hired in droves to handle the exponential increase in legal transactions.

There were a pack of Kiwis at Barlow, Lyde and Gilbert, where I worked. The Kiwis welcomed the lone Kangaroo. The partners provided a formal lunch for legal staff.  The Antipodeans sat together like a battalion. I felt like an Aussie at Gallipoli, under the repressive orders of British officers. There was no kookaburra laughter over that meal. It was a sombre and stiff occasion.

My best Kiwi mates were Giselle McLachlan and Margie Beattie. Margie’s father was the Governor General at the time. Giselle and I shared an office and a telephone line. The first time Geoffrey rang, she answered, covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said, “Some guy called Godfrey wants to talk to you.” She calls him Godfrey to this day.

There were other Aussies scattered around the big law firms like shells washed up by the surf. In the early 90s it was fashionable for female solicitors, like men, to wear striped shirts, with cufflinks and bow ties. I was shopping near Liverpool Street station in Tie Rack and put my hand into a bowl of silk, elasticised cufflinks. Another hand went in and the hand belonged to my old mate from law school, Kylie Virtue. We looked at each other at the same time and she exclaimed, “Pottsie! What are you doing here?” By then she was married to superstar Rob Clarke, who was working for an advertising agency. He played school boys’ rugby for Australia. Kylie, Mosman bred through and through, is like a bubbly cockatoo, alert, chatty, taut – a dynamo. Whenever we met for lunch, I could spot the plume of her short blonde hair bobbing above the crowd as she strode faster than everyone.

Anne tipped up for a year to do a Master’s degree soon after I was married.

The Antipodeans were like rays of sunshine before I acclimatised to damper weather. They eventually all downed tools and migrated back to the Southern Hemisphere, but for a bit, they brought home to me.

Today, I am meeting my Spanish friend, code name Flamenco, as she is very private, at the Bluebird in Kings Road for a catch up.

Yesterday I went to the Botticelli at the V & A with Gill, my Sheila friend, in London. Had a cuppa and shared a carrot cake (we both needed the comfort) at the stunning Victorian tiled café. I wanted to see the Birth of Venus – I love the shell, but it wasn’t there. A lot of Madonna and Child and two Venuses with no background. The heavy gilt frames were works of art in themselves. The V & A is a haven and is my go-to place if I am upset, along with Hurlingham. Many times, if it was raining and dull, I would head to this treasure trove and wander for hours amongst the ceramics, silver, jewellery, interior installations, glass, textiles, sculptures, clothes, paintings, objets d’ art – and always a cuppa. The pond in the Italian style courtyard is tranquil in the sunshine.

Today, I had a thank you letter from another Hon., Hugo’s godmother, Ghislaine. She and her husband, Peter, another lawyer, came for dinner recently. They live in Scotland now. Her mother was Belgian and her brother is a peer. Ghislaine was/is part of the Gang. Most of the Gang are still around.

Geoff worked out, and I worked out pretty quickly, that we didn’t want to be apart and two months after Susan and David’s wedding, he proposed in a Chelsea restaurant called the English Garden near Sloane Square, the centre of the Sloane world and obviously from where Sloanes derive their name. Ghislaine was an angel in the early years and guided me through the terrain of being a Sloane wife. She realised pretty quickly that I was a lousy cook and bought me a cook book, which I still use. She led by example. If she sent me a thank you card it was on headed cream paper and the script was from a blue fountain pen. I observed how to entertain. How to talk to the man on your left during first course and then switch during main. And she was KIND. Is KIND. She is indeed aristocratic, but she has a natural, noble nature. Her husband, Peter, was a firm supporter too. He used to sing Seekers (Australian band) songs to me. “Train, whistle, blowing…” from “Morningtown Ride”. He was a hot shot solicitor and I looked up to him enormously. He was the youngest person appointed to the Takeover Panel back then.

Not long after I was married Ghislaine asked if I’d like to have tea with her brother at the House of Lords. This is over 25 years ago, so he was a pretty young baron and his star had just started its ascent. I accepted of course. I adored all that history stuff. The date was set. And then, because I was hopeless at running my diary (Sloanes are sewn to their diaries –something I had to learn), I forgot that my best Uni mate, David McElveney, was coming to stay. In typical Kanga form, I rang and asked if he could come too. I can’t believe in retrospect that I had the cheek to ask. It didn’t occur to me that this was not the done thing – what Sloanes think of as very non-U, meaning  Non-Upper Class, ie, bad manners. Ghislaine was of course gracious and said, “Marvellous.”

Of course, when David arrived on the morning of the actual trip to the Houses of Parliament, he was as excited as me at the prospect of having tea at the House of Lords. But he was back packing. No suit. And he was not the same size as Geoff, so off we went and bought a suit from M & S and that afternoon we were both cleared through security and finally sipping tea with Thomas and Ghislaine.

Today I am having lunch with my sister in law, Susan Wilmot. And then dinner at my old neighbours in Elms Crescent, Clapham, where we lived until we moved to Chelsea.

The weather has imploded. Cold and grey again. Good day for a museum trip with Gill.

Yesterday I drove to see Nicky for lunch, always a tonic. The drive from Petersfield to Winchester is breathtaking, along the top of the Downs. The patchwork of fields below, green after the plentiful winter rain, reminds me of the patriotic hymn Jerusalem “In England’s green and pleasant land.” Nicky is a farmer. She runs the show like my Auntie Wilma did in the grasslands of New South Wales. She has sheep, chickens and agricultural land. I love walking through her fields when the wind is swishing the crops from side to side. It takes me right back to the days when I had a pet kangaroo.

Nicky was my trusted confidante during my courtship with Geoff. Geoff was part of a close knit group of pheasants and stags (the Gang) and Nicky was part of the Gang. Leisure time included walking in the Lake District, shooting weekends in Dorset, the endless weddings of the time, dances, weekends at Stone House or other country houses in the Home Counties and trips to Scotland. All country pursuits. It was unusual to find a Sloane in London over the weekend. They considered the country to be their natural habitat. Still do. During the week, dinner parties, the pub or a cheap Italian or curry. The gastro age had not arrived. Celebrity chefs like Nigella and Gordon Ramsey were of the future.  Sloanes worshipped Mary Berry and Delia.

Many of the stags in the Gang owned estates or were land agents, having trained at Cirencester Agricultural College. So we went to where they were based and they laid on the shooting and walking. I had to buy a Barbour and Wellington boots (gumboots). I was drenched from top to toe on many occasions. My hair looked a mess. I looked a mess. Pheasants, however, suited the environment. They looked all rosy and glowing with their flawless English complexions.

On one weekend in the Lake District, the Gang found themselves suddenly engulfed in thick cloud and rain. The temperature plummeted. I was freezing, my bones ached and I had snot dripping down my face. Where was the beach? Where was the golden sand? The sun? Where on earth was I? How did I get there? I was delirious with cold. Geoff noticed the snot and discreetly wiped it off with his pristine white handkerchief. He thought I was a trooper. I wasn’t. I was pretending to be the perfect Sloane like the other pheasants. I was faking it.

And let’s turn to the shooting weekends, which were rough shoots, pretty low-key events. Not the blood baths you would find on commercial shoots. The men had the guns (these days women do too and I imagine the Queen always has had a gun) and the women (some with babies strapped to their backs) and farm labourers – called the beaters – went through the woods and hedgerows making loud noises and banging trees with sticks to flush the pheasants out. Labradors and springer spaniels are the Sloane’s favourite breeds, precisely because they are integral to shooting. Nicky has two springer spaniels.

I was in love. I wanted to be with Geoffrey, not whacking trees. And it often rained and I was cold and not really deep down very happy to be so cold and wet. I did love the lunches though. You had a big pig out when you finished. Stilton and cheddar, fresh bread, pork pies, soup. In the evenings you scrubbed up and the men changed into a jacket and tie or black tie and the women found their Laura Ashley dresses and pearls or a velvet evening dress for smarter dinners, again with pearls.

Today I have tennis with pheasants my age or thereabouts. And then I am meeting my Sheila friend Gill who I have known for almost fifty years and we are going to the Botticelli exhibition at the V&A.

 

 

On Friday the fence was installed and I did in fact make the men endless cups of tea. The weather was beautiful, so I cleared the driveway of twigs and found excuses to stay outdoors with Domino frolicking around.

We built a big bonfire on Sunday afternoon, with as much garden refuse as we could lay our hands on. Geoff almost blew himself to smithereens when he was too generous with the petrol. I stood and fed the fire for hours in the sunshine, making sure that the last twig was incinerated. If only you could burn up life’s problems so easily.

On Friday, I told you about Susan and David’s nuptials. Getting ready with the expert help of the hairdresser and makeup artist was a new and luxurious experience for me. I wasn’t very into grooming in Australia. Never had a manicure or pedicure. Randomly had my haircut. The sun highlighted my hair in the summer. I was a tomboy.

I soon noticed that grooming was a part of London Sloane life. Pheasants went to the hairdresser regularly and had their locks coloured. My hair fast lost its goldenness and I resorted to highlighting it. I still do.

When we moved to Chelsea in my early forties, the pressure to be well turned out pumped up. Sloanes and foreign residents in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea were well groomed. I had to up my game.

The issue was brought to the fore when I met my new neighbour, Caroline Stanbury, almost fifteen years ago. She was a stylist then, but now she’s the star of “Ladies of London” on Bravo television. Caroline was, and still is, the most glamorous person I have ever met. During the time we were neighbours in Chelsea (she moved onto to better house after a few years), I admired her effortless ability to look chic, whether in a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater to go to Starbucks or in an evening dress about to attend the Summer Party at the Serpentine with Cem (her husband), who was looking like James Bond. She accessorised perfectly. Her hair was always expertly blow-dried and her nails gleamed with glossy nail polish.

We became an odd couple. I would help her housekeeper with cooking tips and Caroline would give me fashion advice. She was also generous and handed on designer clothes to Anna, a budding teenager. She explained that I needed to treat my wardrobe like a library. I needed so many pairs of jeans (good quality, not Gap), tailored black trousers, a selection of day and evening dresses, flat and court shoes, evening and day bags. You get the idea. And it all needed to be filed properly in the right place so I could access things quickly. The first thing she told me was that my jeans were far too big and that I should get properly measured. I didn’t have a huge budget, but she said to buy investment pieces at the sales, at places like Harrods and Harvey Nicholls. Thank you Caroline. I’m indebted.

After we’d been living as neighbours for a bit, she bumped into me with Anna on the pavement and asked if I’d consider doing a makeover with her for the Daily Express. Anna said, “Go on Mum. It will be fun.” Well, the day came and we were chauffeured to where I would be transformed. Nando, who works for the royal hairdresser Richard Ward, cut off all my hair into a layered bob. Next, makeup. Then, dressed in Zara clothes and a pair of Caroline’s Valentino stilettos. Finally, photographed with Caroline (looking like a supermodel) and then interviewed.

Both Caroline and I were not amused when the article came out. The journalist put words into my mouth and into Geoff’s. They rang him to find out what he thought of his gorgeous new wife. He said, like any gentleman, “That’s none of your business.” He was reported as saying that he couldn’t get over his wife’s new glam look. And the headline was “Cash Strapped Housewife in a Style Rut”. And I think they photoshopped me to look older. I was appalled. The good news is that from then on I had my hair cut and coloured at Richard Ward and it has been worth every penny.

Tomorrow I am meeting up with Gill my Sydney friend of almost 50 years to see the Botticelli exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum in Knightsbridge.

 

 

Today I am in Hampshire again and the weather forecast is fantastic for the weekend. Spring is on its way. A tree surgeon managed to smash the boundary fence when felling a 150 year old beech tree with a fungal disease. So today two blokes are installing a new fence. That means that every two hours I’ll make them a cup of tea. But isn’t it amazing I had a 150 year old tree, once.

Before leaving London, I had a quick circuit with Domino around the Hurlingham Club gardens, the venue for Susan and David Wilmot’s wedding reception on 10 September, 1988. The day is still crystal clear in my mind. Susan did not wear a meringue dress. She wore a unique dress she had bought the previous February with Joanna and me in Palm Beach, Florida. Louis and Joanna had relocated there after their stint in Sydney and I was invited to meet the future groom, David Wilmot, with Susan, travelling from London. The Kangaroo was out of her depth.

Palm Beach was a revelation to me. The sea was not unlike Sydney sea, but the town was not at all like Sydney town. It was all soft pastels and white; groomed elegant people like the Kennedys –  Jackie O was everywhere; mansions made out of coral; manicured perfect lawns and tropical flowers; serious yachts and on Worth Avenue, exclusive shopping, with immaculate children in Lily Pulitzer outfits. My eyes were out on stalks as I took it all in. I longed for the grit of Sydney, the kookaburra spirit of it. The Kangaroo was not at home.

Susan and David’s wedding felt like a mini Royal Wedding. And I was part of it. I was ants in my pants excited on the day. Susan was calm as a cucumber. The hairdresser turned up to transform our locks at dawn, but it was exciting to be getting ready for the big event. And Susan looked stunningly beautiful. Like a princess. The wedding service was a traditional and stately. It was not country wedding charming.  Joanna looked sensational in duck egg blue. The Queen would have nodded appreciation for her outfit. The flowers were dense and regal, not country garden pretty.

And the reception at the Hurlingham Club was buzzy. The forecourt entrance is so familiar to me now, but back then it felt grand and imposing. I felt like an extra in a film. But all through the day, was the dashing best man, Geoffrey, my Mr Darcy, occasionally catching my eye with a smile. The whole of his family were there too. All but one of his seven siblings were in attendance with partners if married and children in the bridal party. After a happy reception Susan, now Wilmot, changed into a lilac ensemble with the matching hat of course and then disappeared off into the sunset with David. It was my first Sloane wedding and exhilarating. Sloanes had a lot of fun on these occasions.

It wasn’t long until I’d be engaged to be the next Mrs Wilmot. On paper it was a dream coming true, but I am an Aussie Sheila through and through. I might try to be a princess, but I am not. I am just an ordinary kid from Down Under, who happened to meet a gentleman, who decided that he liked the way I laughed and the stories I told and thought I was a genuine person. Of course I had blonde hair, a regular face, but I think, I hope that it was the guts of me that captured my Mr Darcy.

On Monday over to Nicky Barber’s in Winchester for lunch and then tennis training at Steep Tennis Club.