The warmer spring weather is stabilising. I am very happy. Domino is loving it too, exploring the garden after a long wet winter.

Yesterday dropped off rings to the royal jeweller (or one of them) to be resized. This meant a trip to Chelsea – my fav place in London. My father, Stan the Man and my mother, Bev, who he called The Duchess, loved the General Trading Company (GTC), with all its Sloane kit. It’s long gone from Sloane Street. It’s where pheasants and stags once chose their wedding list (Prince Charles and Camilla had their wedding list there), along with Peter Jones.  In the early years, my family visited me in London, but also to travel from the tip of Scotland to Land’s End at the foot of Cornwall. They hadn’t left Australia before. It was an eye opener.

At first it was hard for Geoff to understand what my father, Stan, was saying a lot of the time, as he spoke very fast and with a broad Aussie Battler accent. A look of bafflement would appear on Geoff’s face when Stan was in full throttle, rabbiting on about his pet topics, the corruption of Aussie politics, sport, beer and grub (food). He also had a surprising love of fine objects, especially clocks, which he collected. Hence the love of the GTC, with its Empire finery. He also loved Aspreys on Bond Street. He wandered in one day in his trainers and the sales assistants treated him as if he was the King of England: charming beyond charming. He bought a carriage clock. “Nice young bloke that served me!” he declared. 

When Stan was bellowing away like a gale force wind, Geoff would give him his full attention as if he was the most fascinating man in the world, but later say to me, “I simply can’t understand the man.” As a result of Geoff’s impeccable manners, Stan thought that Geoff was the best thing since sliced bread. They were an odd couple.  Stan grew to love Geoff deeply over the years and on his death bed, told him he had been the best son-in-law he could have wished for. We have the Aspreys clock.

Two things that gravely upset Stan on the trip were British food and beer. At one pub he ordered a minute steak. Stan was used to mega steaks called T-bones, which covered most of the dinner plate. Stan was a carnivore on a cave man scale. He would consume as much red meat as possible on a daily basis. I remember the look of disgust when the minute steak was put in front of him. “Strewth, are British cattle the size of lambs…” He ordered a lobster in Scotland and a small crustacean not much bigger than a king prawn in Oz was put in front of him. “Strewth, our prawns are bigger than this little bloke.” And the beer, “pee warm”. Dad loved the British pubs. He loved the Padwell Arms beyond the field at Geoff’s parents’ house, Stone House. But he always drank cold lager with Geoff.

On another trip, we went to the Loire Valley in France, with the plethora of chateaux. Stan’s solution to not speaking a word of French was to increase the volume. 

“Gidday love. Can you tell me where I can find the steaks?” he said full throttle to a bewildered female shop assistant. We had come to a small supermarket in Descartes to pick up supplies for our rental.

I said, “Dad she doesn’t speak English. She doesn’t understand you.”

Stan looked at me, “Of course she bloody does. I can see it in her eyes.”

“Dad that is a look of horror. You’re yelling at her.”

Geoff could speak French so he intervened. A look of relief flooded the woman’s face.

Today I am going to meet The Hon. for lunch for more tips on life in the upper class. Then out for supper at the Hurlingham Club with Mr and Mrs Jetset (this couple travel the world in great style).