Weather nondescript today, neither warm nor cold.

Yesterday had tennis training at Steep. Pottered around the garden. Warming up for the onslaught of weeds when summer comes.

It took me a long time to acclimatise to the reversal of seasons. Northern Hemisphere versus Southern Hemisphere. Cold at Christmas, not hot. Hot in July, not cold. After a heat wave summer at Stone House, the winter drew in. It was a particularly cold and foggy winter. We don’t seem to get fogs in London now like we did 25 years ago (less brown sites). I would look out of the window of my office at 3.30pm in December and it would be almost dark. I felt like going to bed at 6pm. 

How was my first Christmas as a Wilmot wife at Stone House? Terrifying! Gigantic turkey. No sun. No heat. No prawns. Turkey, bread sauce, Brussels sprouts instead. Loved the Christmas pud and brandy butter. Very homesick. But I was pretending it was all “marvellous”.

Church – very formal. I had on my new Sloane outfit. And then present giving after lunch by a roaring fire. (We ripped our presents open at dawn in Oz.) I smiled chuffed: two special presents from my husband, a pashmina and a leather handbag from Liberty’s. I hid in the corner, trying to acclimatise to the extent of the celebrations.

Mutti and Pops have seven children, so there was a growing family at the top of tree, the next generation. I would have to reproduce as well. Would mine come out with surfboards and a tan?   

For New Year we went to stay with Nicky’s parents in Scotland for a house party. Lots of food and walks. She kindly handed over her double bed to Geoff and me. On 1^st January, 1990 I had a sleepless night. When we returned to our little house in Clapham, a distressing period of insomnia overtook me. Some nights I would just about manage one or two hours.

After a week or so I told my boss, Justin, that I was having trouble sleeping. I looked as white as a sheet.  Justin, true to form, politely took the pressure off me and said to come into work when I could.

I went to the General Practitioner around the corner, Dr Dunwoody, an old, crusty doctor. I cried. Looking back I realise that I may have had Sunlight Affective Disorder (SAD) and homesickness and depression. Too many changes too soon??? Too much pressure to assimilate into a new culture??? He didn’t offer any advice, medication, nothing, just said to get on with it or so to speak.

Geoff was very patient and would try to lay awake with me. He put his hand on my shoulder. Held my hand. Zero effect.

Geoff had a bright idea. He said, “You need a change of scenery.” So we went to Paris for a long weekend. Even though Paris was also grey and foggy, the beauty of the city and the delicious food revived me. In the photos I look ghostly. But it did the trick. I needed some distance from my new life in London, to get some perspective on what it looked like.

We walked the streets, ate breakfast in fashionable cafes on the Boulevard Saint Michel, visited the Musee d’Orsay with the Impressionists, had lunch in the Place de Vosges, went to the Eiffel Tower. It was so romantic. People fall in love with Paris. It is known as the City of Love. It is like a beautiful French woman, elegant, well-structured and with a good complexion. Finally I fell asleep.

Today a pheasant from Hurlingham is coming to give advice on cutting flowers and growing vegetables. Nicky Barber is coming for tea.