Anna’s pain has subsided and she has colour back in her cheeks.

Yesterday I talked about Sloane dinner parties and the art of entertaining. Some of the best dinner parties I attended in the 90s were at Waterperry: the pink, East Sussex home of the Corrie Seniors, Hugh and Janet. Sadly now no longer with us.

Louise Prince married Richard Corrie not long after us. They were married at the Royal Naval College, Greenwich, in the East of London, as Louise’s father had been a naval officer. The reception was held in the Painted Hall, designed by Sir Christopher Wren (think St Paul’s Cathedral), which is described as the “Sistine Chapel (think Vatican) of the UK”. It is the grandest setting for a wedding that I have ever attended. The interiors are of immense beauty and scope – breath-taking.

The Corrie clan were almost late to the wedding. They could be heard entering the chapel due to their unique laugh, loud and raucous, with which they egg each other on, so that it reaches a crescendo. I would recognise that laugh anywhere in the world. 

The Corrie clan is larger than life. Janet, the matriach, was a Macleod of the Isle of Skye (West Coast of Scotland) clan. So Richard wore a kilt to the wedding. Hugh was the libel lawyer for the Mirror Group. When he died in 2006 the Press Gazette read, “Corrie adored journalists. He loved and shared their mischief and penchant for trouble making.” That summed him up perfectly.

Richard rowed for Eton (winning the Princess Elizabeth Challenge Cup in 1979) and England in the Under 18s. He is a member of the exclusive Stewards’ Enclosure (like the Royal Enclosure at Ascot) at the Henley Royal Regatta, Henley-on-Thames, over the first weekend in July. Self-electing Stewards annually run the Henley Royal Regatta and have a little section all to themselves and their guests. The event is all Pimms and strawberries and the best of the English summer season. A woman’s dress must be below the knee or she will be refused entry to the Stewards’ Enclosure. This is the one event where men outdo the women in the flamboyance stakes. The ex- rowing men wear colourful striped jackets and caps and look like humbug sweets.

I first met the Corrie clan en masse at the Regatta in July 1990. Meeting them was like facing a hurricane; you had to keep your wits about you. Louise introduced me to Hugh, explaining that I had married Geoff the previous year. Hugh said, “Do I detect an accent?” I told him I was an Aussie. Hugh, chuckling, said, “So I suppose you married Geoff for the Green Card (immigration rights) eh?” Everyone stopped in their tracks, holding their breath, to hear my response. I replied, “Well done. You know you’re the first person to guess the real reason for me marrying him, that and his money.” I had passed the Corrie test. You must have a sense of humour or you’re persona non grata.

I went to many dinner parties at Waterperry. Or picnics in the garden, with tennis and swimming. Richard’s 30th was a formal affair. Black tie for men. Women in silky, glossy outfits. After main course, Janet announced to the table that her prize boar, Oily Poily, was due to become a father. One of the sows was giving birth to piglets. So we all went out with torches to inspect the new additions to the clan. I shall never forget Janet standing there in Wellies, with her dress hitched up and her pearls dangling, to inspect that all had gone well.  Like P.G. Wodehouse’s Lord Emsworth and his prize porker, the Empress of Blandings.

“My Family and Other Animals” by Gerald Durrell (his brother Lawrence was also a famous author) has recently been made into another TV adaptation (starring a friend’s sister, Daisy Waterstone). The Corries are like the Durrells – funny, intelligent, bookish, quirky. It has been magical and entertaining to be part of their lives for many years.

Today I am packing to go to Australia, via Singapore, with Geoff. So I shall be reporting from there.

Weather still terrible. Cold.

Yesterday daughter, Anna, had her wisdom teeth removed under a general anaesthetic. She came out with packs in her mouth. The nurses who wheeled her back to her room told us that she was the first person to talk nonstop with packs in their mouth and still make sense. That’s Anna. She was so funny when she was still groggy – insisting that she needed to text her friends and watch TV, even though she was incapable of doing both.

The doctor said she would be on soft food for a bit.

I recently talked about our trip to Paris, in February 1990, when I had insomnia. Exceptional food is now served in many a top London restaurant now days. That wasn’t the case when I first moved to London. Paris, however, had exceptional food back then. The pastries were delectable. I had never eaten croissants and pain chocolate. Heavenly!  And the sauces on the meat … had never had Béarnaise sauce on the meat cooked by Stan the Man, my Dad, on the barbie.

It was a trial learning to cook in London in the first days of married life. The ingredients didn’t seem to translate to my Aussie Sheila brain. It was a learning curve. I had to learn to cook three course meals for dinner parties. Kitchen supper parties were different. They were cosy, relaxed affairs. For dinner parties you need to set the table in the correct fashion, the right order of cutlery and glasses.

Ghislaine, one of the three titled Honourables in my life, was a whizz kid at throwing dinner parties in her London home, before she and Peter moved to an ancestral home in Scotland. She had her father’s enormous dining table, which he had used as his desk whilst serving as a Member of Parliament.  Dinner parties were late. You were asked for 8.30 for 9pm, meaning that you must arrive no later than 8.50pm. Then drinks in the drawing room. Dinner was usually at around 9.30pm, and as I said, three courses: a starter, main and pudding (what Sloanes call desert, even if it isn’t a fruity cake). 

I had to adapt to this new way of eating. Aussies usually eat no later than 7pm. You’re done and dusted by 10pm. Also Aussies serve cheese and fruit before dinner, with drinks.

Having said all that, formal dining, was fun. It was not just eating a meal that took a lot of trouble to cook: it was the art of conversation; banter; talking to the opposite sex whilst hopefully looking your best in all your finery and relaxing.

The formal dinner party has somewhat declined over the years, but for some, it is still a fixture in the calendar. Eating out has become more popular?

Today I will try and make sure that Anna swallows the right pills so that she is comfortable.

I’m sick of reporting on the weather. Spring is not quite kicking in! I’m fed up.

Yesterday I went to have my hair done at Richard Ward in the Duke of York Square, near Sloane Square, Chelsea. I told you in a previous blog that I had a disastrous makeover for the Daily Express, with Caroline Stanbury, when we first moved to Chelsea. But I met super talented Nando, the handsome, Portuguese hairdresser from Richard Ward, who cut my hair into a super new look. I went to have my hair cut by him thereafter. 

Nando is the quiet type, except with the staff. With clients, he just gets down to business. He has an A-class client list. When I first started going to see him, I couldn’t believe how quiet he was. “Hello, Sandra,” was the most I’d get and then, cut, blow dry, and out of the chair to part with the cash. Well I wasn’t having that. I started to cackle away … about this, that and anything. Eventually, he started to chat. We became hairdresser-client friends. I brought Ugg boots back from Australia for him. When I said he was getting too expensive, he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll charge you less.”  I refused and found a less senior stylist, Sabrina. He always pats my shoulder though and says hello.

Sabrina is glossy ebony, with pearl white teeth. She’s beautiful. Like me she has endured a makeover: with Trinny and Susannah, celebs in the 90s, who did television makeovers and brought out books about how to pick the right clothes for your body shape.

Sabrina was part of Kate Middleton’s big day, marrying Will, in Westminster Cathedral. She styled the bridesmaids’ hair at the Goring Hotel. She was sworn to confidentiality, of course, which she has honoured. But she did say to me, “It was the most extraordinary experience you could hope for as a hairdresser.” She once styled Kate for a charity event. She told me, “If someone had said to her as a little girl, ‘One day you are going to do the future Queen of England’s hair,’ I wouldn’t have believed them.”

The buzz in the salon around the time of the Cambridges’ wedding was high octane. The press were camped outside for a scoop. What a coup for the salon and for Richard Ward himself.

Richard is also a member of the Hurlingham Club. When I see him my hair is usually in a ponytail after tennis. He is always very friendly and chatty.

When I turned 50, great Aussie mates, Gill and Brett Davis, came to stay with us in London. We did all my favourite “London” things that day. Tennis at Hurlingham (they borrowed the requisite whites from Geoff and me), lunch in Sloane Square at Manicomio next to Richard Ward, the Victoria and Albert Museum in South Kensington, a tour of the Royal Hospital where non-commissioned soldiers (ie non officers) can live in retirement, and dinner back at the Hurlingham.

After we’d played tennis I saw Richard Ward and ran up to him. “Please meet my friends from Australia. It’s my 50^th and they would love to meet Kate’s hairdresser.” He was more than happy to meet them. What a good bloke.

Today Anna is having her wisdom teeth taken out under general anesthetic. I am nervous.

Still a bit damp and grey this morning.

I watched the Olivier Awards last night and I have to confess, I have had my own Notting Hill moment. Where you don’t recognise the person you are talking to is someone famous. 

Several years ago, great friends of ours asked Geoff and me, very last minute, if we could come with them to the Olivier Awards ceremony and after party. They were taking a group of the hubby’s clients to it and a pair had dropped out at the last minute. We were seat fillers.

Off we went on a Sunday night to the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. I had bought a floor length velvet dress and Geoff wore black tie. We were all meeting for champagne beforehand. Geoff and I were early so we popped into Starbucks for a coffee, near Trafalgar Square. A homeless man came and sat next to us. We bought him a coffee. The contrast between our attire and his was crazy. Then Geoff spilt the coffee down his shirt. There was a panic to get it clean in the toilet. Thank goodness we did.

After nibbles and champagne we were chauffeured to the awards. As we walked up the red carpet, I could see some of the cast from Downton up ahead. It was thrilling.

We made our way to a private box. I was introduced to “Anita”. She was very friendly.

I asked her what she did and she said, “A little bit of acting.”

I responded, “Oh how funny. So does my daughter Anna.”

I went on and on and on about how Anna had landed her first audition and appeared on Family Affairs on Channel 5. The show was axed after 3 months, but her mother in the show was Glynis Barber of Dempsey and Makepeace, the 80s cop show.

She said, “Good for your daughter.”

I asked, “Have you got any work coming up shortly?”

“Yes, I’m doing a play in Bromley next month on the relationship between Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. I’m playing Bette,” she replied.

Then we all took her our seats. There was a spare one beside me, with Anita on the other side.

The opening act was Brian May of Queen fame performing a number from the West End show, “We Will Rock You”.

About 10 minutes after the number ended, the box door opened and Brian came and sat down beside me. He ignored me and kissed Anita, HIS WIFE.

It turned out that his wife was Anita Dobson. She had been a star on Eastenders. We hit it off at the after party and she invited the female guests to come and see the show in Bromley. So off I went. I was a huge fan of Greta Scacchi (part Aussie) and she was playing Joan. I managed to get into her dressing room and we had a chat and some photos taken. Who can forget her simmering in “White Mischief”?

Today I am up to London.

Today is raining after a glorious weekend.  Killed ourselves mowing, weeding and feeding the garden.

On Friday, a tennis friend, from the Hurlingham Club, came and gave her expert advice on how to grow cutting flowers and veggies. A project for the summer.

Nicky also came for tea and we had a power talk, that means talking about everything very economically and effectively. I value her insightful and clever mind. I just had a message from her that she was up half the night in driving rain, delivering lambs. That’s my Nicky.

When I went to Iventure, Auntie Wilma’s farm, in the grasslands near West Wyalong, I would help with the shearing. At the same time male lambs were castrated and all were docked, tails removed. 

There is something tremendously romantic about the life of itinerant shearers and workers. Moving from station to station, doing their back breaking work, keeping their spirits up with larking around and singing. “Clip go the shears boys, clip, clip clip…” as the song goes.

In preparation for their visit, Auntie Wilma and I would make hundreds of Anzac biscuits for “Smoko”, which was morning tea, with a cigarette (the smoke), for the shearers.

The shearing began at the crack of dawn. The speed and energy of the shearers was awe inspiring. Each sheep would be wrestled over, the hind legs then trapped between the shearer’s legs and the front legs under his left underarm (if he was right handed) and then whilst the sheep was immobilised, he would use the electric shears to remove the fleece in one piece. If he accidentally nicked them, hot tar was applied to stem the blood flow. Then the sheep would be thrown down the chute and the next one would appear from another chute. Over and over all day.

It was my job to sweep the floor, the dags – soiled wool – from the sheep’s bottom, between each turn. The shearers teased me. They would burn my backside when I bent over to sweep with their hot shears. They would throw me into the wool bales. It felt greasy like Vaseline in there. It was joyous, fun times.

Underneath the shearing floor were the little lambs, separated from their mothers, crying like mad. They were inconsolable. I would try to comfort them, but to no avail. Wilma and Don would place rubber bands around the base of their tails so that they would fall off – docking. Otherwise they would get flyblown and maggots would grow there. The male lambs, if not intended for breeding, were castrated, again by placing rubber bands around their balls. Rumour had it that Wilma’s father Tod, would castrate them by cutting open the balls and removing them with his mouth. 

Today I intend to have a break from the garden and go with Domino to the South Downs for a stretch.

Going to watch the Olivier Awards on television tonight.

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.

More lovely spring weather.

Had a lovely catchup with The Hon. (she has mega aristocratic credentials) at Gails in Fulham. Gails is one of those new fad “good for you” establishments, serving, e.g., spiralised courgette (zucchini) or quinoa – both wheat substitutes. Everything is whole grain and low sugar. Even so, The Hon. ordered bacon and eggs on sourdough. The upper classes love nursery food, the sort that was served and eaten in the presence of a nanny, whilst the parents were elsewhere preparing for drinks and dinner with staff (think Downton). Comfort food-cottage pie, shepherd’s pie, fish pie, chicken pie (there is a pie theme here), boiled eggs and soldiers, sausages, macaroni cheese, apple crumble and custard. The best description of nursery food is fictionalised in the Cazelet Chronicles, by Elizabeth Jane Howard or Nancy Mitford’s novels. All are like having a soothing warm bath.

We had a lovely supper at the Hurlingham Club with Mr and Mrs Jetset, who live in Chelsea and gad around the world when they can. They have a thirst for travel, seeing and experiencing new places, new people, new vistas. And escaping the cold winters. Stan, my Dad, would have loved Mr Jetset, because of his engineering capabilities. Stan was a genius in that department. And he would have loved Mrs Jetset as she is so glamorous, like The Duchess, my Mum, Bev.

Bev could always wear a good frock and she was a legend at sewing. She could have made Kate Middleton’s wedding dress. She made stunning outfits for me as a kid. People would stop me on the street and say, “Strewth, your mother’s beaut at sewing.” The material of my blouse would line my culottes (skirts that are really shorts). The trim of my neckline would adorn my waistline. Bev loved people complementing her about her creations. She should have been Coco Chanel. 

Stan was a DIY superhero. When I was a toddler he read a book and built a Venetian style speed boat, christened Sandy, in my honour. He built billy carts and tree houses for my brother Shaun and me. Stan was always building something in the garage. His main achievement was kitting out the interior of my grandparents’ holiday house, The Weekender, which was near The Entrance, north of Sydney. 

The Weekender was where I spent a lot of my childhood and teens, weekends and school holidays. It was where the tribe met, Stan’s tribe. The Weekender was made of fibro, a bit like rock solid cardboard. It had two bedrooms, one for my grandparents and in the other were bunk beds for the women. The men slept with the children on mattresses on the lounge room floor. Before bedtime, windows were shut and the place was fumigated with Aeroguard, which was surely toxic, to kill mossies (mosquitoes). 

There was a carport where meals were eaten and the tribe hung out, playing cards, chatting, trying to keep cool in the hot summer months. Stan was in charge of barbequing, always with a tinnie (can) of cold lager in his left hand, while he usually overcooked the meat. Stan was fond of charcoaled meat. Stan was also in charge of activities, which meant going to the beach, prawning in the estuary or fishing on the lake. When we had cabin fever, he would march us out to the car and take us down to the beach. Or get us up at the crack of dawn to fish. Or swing lanterns in pee warm estuary water and wait for the prawns to run – head out of the estuary to the sea – catching them in drag nets.  If you are looking for a fictionalised description of this life by the sea, read the greatest Australian novelist, in my view, Tim Winton.

The Weekender was the poetry of my youth. It was wild and free. I ran around barefoot like a kangaroo and swam like a dolphin. My grandfather, also Stan, Stan Senior, taught me to swim in the sea pool. He would chuck me in near the edge and I would swim a few strokes and then go back and hold the edge, repeat the same. One day he chucked me out much further from the edge, saying, “Go on love, swim…” And suddenly I could dog-paddle, then crawl and once I started, I never stopped. I would spend all day swimming, hair bleached white. In and out of the pool, diving, bombing, holding my breath, floating head down until my lungs almost burst, floating upwards looking at the sky.

Stan, my Dad, taught me how to swim in the surf, so that the waves didn’t pulverise me. He would take my hand and we would dive under the breaking wave to the sea bed where it was calm and wait for the crashing roller to pass overhead. Eventually I let go of his hand. Eventually I went out on my own. Until the day he died, if I was at the beach with Stan, he watched me like a hawk to see if I was okay.

Today, back to Hampshire to the Old Rectory, as I have tennis training.

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).

Yesterday, sunshine. Fed and weeded the lawn. Gathered wood and lit another bonfire. I am becoming a pyromaniac.

These days life is more about manual work, but in the first five years of marriage, before the children, it was about brain work. I spent my days thinking and writing in a legal context. That is what I was paid for.

I made two trips to the States with Justin, my boss. We flew business class, which was something, as I had only been on a plane a few times in my life. In those days, you could smoke on planes, so everyone was puffing and huffing around me. Hated that. Couldn’t even open a window. Foul.

The Windy City was stellar. One piece of litigation was filed in Cooke County, Illinois, so Peterson & Ross (P&R) in Chicago were engaged as our local attorneys. We had many conference calls with the two hot-shot lawyers involved, Tom and Greg, before I finally met them. No video links at that time. They sounded like movie stars on the phone. I was excited to finally meet them, and although they were quite nice looking, they were not in the Tom Cruise league.  Films based on John Grisham’s legal novels were just about to start hitting cinemas on a regular basis.

Outside of work hours, we had a lot of fun: jazz clubs, baseball at Wrigley Field, dinner at fantastic restaurants and shopping at Bloomingdales. On the weekend, Justin hired a big American tank of a car and we drove clockwise along Lake Michigan (more like an inland sea) to stay with the senior partner at P&R, who I’ll call Mr X. He had a lake house. I was nervous, as Mr X, who was ancient by the way – old as Stan the Man – had asked me out in London a few months earlier. One day Justin rushed into my office and said that Mr X was on the phone and wanted to ask me out. He’d asked Justin’s permission to mix business with pleasure first. I declined on the basis that I was dating Geoffrey. Dodged a bullet.

It was time to go to the beach for a swim. I was not keen on baring my body, so I feigned tiredness and stayed at the house reading back copies of Vanity Fair. But it was fun that evening. Mr X had a look-out at the back of the garden and we climbed up there to star gaze, drinking very good red wine and chatting. It was a surreal experience, being at the top of the world with an Englishman and a Yank.  I enjoyed the access my job gave me to people far cleverer than me.

Even with the excitement of the international legal world, I missed Geoffrey terribly and couldn’t wait to see him again.

Today, popping along to favourite jewellers, Robinson Pelham, on Chelsea Green, as I need to have my engagement ring enlarged. Arthritis methinks. They made Kate Middleton’s wedding earrings.

Friday was lovely weather at the Old Rectory. Then, despite the weather forecast (hate when they get it wrong), it caved in and we had howling winds all weekend. The garage door almost blew off, so the hinges are damaged.

We had workmen here cutting up logs from the ancient beech tree, which was felled a few months ago. Hugo and I dug up the woodland path nearby, which has been in disarray since we bought the house. The idea is to create a scenic walk. It may take the rest of my life!

After living at Geoff’s parents’ house in Kent for a stint after our wedding, I was glad to relocate to our little house in Clapham. It had a garden the size of a handkerchief. Now we could concentrate on married life, entertaining friends, having fun and work.

Work: I worked the in the City, the Square Mile, the Midas mile, from the end of the 80s to roughly 1998, when money was being made faster and faster after the Big Bang in 1986, when the markets were deregulated. It was an exciting, heady time. You felt that you were part of something, BIG. You felt bigger. It was just an illusion. It was money being made in vast quantities that made you feel that way.

Interview for my first job (August, 1988): I walked into a conference room at Barlow, Lyde and Gilbert (now merged with Clyde & Co, my next employer) and there was this really young looking, blonde guy, Justin Codrai, not much taller than me, obviously not much older than me. He was the PARTNER interviewing me. He opened his mouth and he had the poshest voice!  More than Geoff’s, which is saying something. “Please take a seat.” He pulled the seat out for me, for strewth’s sake! He had impeccable manners. Kept on saying, “Many thanks.” It was the contrast between the baby looks and the old boy manners – totally threw me.

He asked what I knew about Lloyd’s, as the firm worked mainly for Lloyd’s. What I didn’t know was that Lloyd’s was a huge ‘market place’, where insurance is sold on the spot with Underwriters taking a part of the risk, like a slice of the cake, until there is 100% coverage. There is always the first Underwriter who takes the plunge, the Lead Underwriter on behalf of the Lead Syndicate (which when I worked in the city was comprised of individual investors like shareholders, but with UNLIMITED liability). I smiled and replied to the question, “Well, yes, of course, I’ve seen the banks around the place. They are very good…” In other words, I didn’t know a flipping thing about the question and had got it 100% wrong. Failed. It was a Bridget Jones moment. There would be many more to come.

Justin gave me the job. He was only in his early 30s. I was 26, but I got the job. Many years later I met him for lunch in a smart restaurant in Piccadilly, my shout, and I asked why he hired me when I was such an idiot. He said that he could tell I would try to learn, FAST.

Justin came across as a public school boy, but he had an unusual upbringing. His father had worked in what would become the United Arab Emirates, when it was still like in biblical times (1950s to mid-80s), before oil made it rich. Instead of going to Cornwall for holidays, he hared around the sand dunes in the Middle East like Lawrence of Arabia. There was no hierarchy in his team. He was classless, despite the accent.

Justin was earning the most money for the firm, as he had two prestigious and large pieces of litigation, with suits filed in London and Chicago. He had a maverick way of litigating, but with a genius mind, that was effective. Not long after I started working for him, he walked into my office one day and said, “How would you feel about a trip to Chicago with me?”

“Yes please!” I said.

So I was off to the Windy City, Chicago, one of my very favourite places.

Today I am going to hit the garden hard and apply weed and feed to the lawn and try to pick up all the twigs and sticks that the wind blew down.