Yesterday, I headed down to the Hampshire south coast to the charming seaside town of Bosham for a solitary walk along the harbour. There was a smattering of people pottering around the flat, calm, grey water – a world away from the pounding, effervescent surf of the East coast of Australia. Regal swans glided along the foreshore, hissing menacingly at Domino. I could hear the tinkling of rigging, flapping against masts of sailboats. I like the music it makes. It’s as if the boats are beckoning the sailors to release them and take them on an adventure. Just when I thought that the sun had left the solar system, the clouds parted and weak spring sunshine flooded the scene.

Dinner, the night before, with our friends on the Thames, was in the same vein. The strong tide whooshed past the picture windows, and white commuter ferries glided past, occasionally, like the swans I’d seen earlier in Bosham Harbour. 

I am now back in Fulham, London, at the ex-butcher’s Shop. It is hard to believe that dead meat was once sold here, as it is the prettiest little house you can imagine. It is unusually double fronted, but only one shallow room deep. I’ve white-washed the walls and accented the cool palette with the colours of the tropics: weed green, orange peach, flame coral, flamingo pink, sunny gold, cool aqua and turquoise.

The art is the same: a Slim Aarons print of an elegant  woman in white shorts (the socialite CZ Guest) standing by a classical topaz pool with her young son and golden dog, framed by the blue sea of Palm Beach, Florida; a photograph of swimmers doing laps in the Bondi Beach sea pool as huge foamy waves smash over the edge; an oversized photograph of the coral of the Great Barrier Reef in the basement (so that I can pretend I am below sea level down there); prints of Bermudan houses in tropical colours with white roofs; a watercolour of an Australian estuary with gum trees (all places I’ve been and will talk about in due course).

You get the picture. I just want to pretend that I am at the seaside when I am in that house. It is always a shock to find noisy traffic and the clackety, clackety, clack of the tube outside.   

But a stone’s throw from my front door is the Hurlingham Club. It’s a haven in a busy city. Due to more rain today, tennis with the older pheasants is cancelled. If the rain abates, I’ll take Domino for a walk in the perfectly manicured gardens. Walk amongst the daffodils and the stark, white magnolia trees.

Now you may be wondering how an Aussie Sheila ended up as a member of the Hurlingham Club, a bastion of pheasants and stags. Certainly not in my own right! You have to be proposed by pheasants and stags. And these were supplied by new toff hubby, Geoffrey, after we were married. I was desperate to join as it has an outdoor swimming pool, and I figured that it was the only way that my amphibian nature would be satisfied.

Hurlingham has been a kind friend to me, cosseting me from hectic London life. As I age, it essentially stays the same, like the sea. It is the scene of many landmarks. It dawned on me that I was in love in September 1988. It is where my children Anna and Hugo played, grew, learnt to swim and play tennis, we ate Sunday lunch most weeks and we socialised with other pheasants and stags – at the endless BBQs on the Rose Terrace, over drinks in the Polo Bar or dining in one of the restaurants. In the quiet of the conservatory I pondered, planned and dreamt of the next stage of life. 

Tonight I am meeting some rather important people for dinner.