Today is overcast in Liss, but I am heading south to Hayling Island to have coffee with friends from Book Club in London, and I hear that it is sunny there.

The rest of the day I will be preparing for Geoff’s eldest sister, Mim, and her extended family’s visit to the Old Rectory tomorrow. My nephew-in-law is playing against our local team on the cricket pitch just behind our house.

Yesterday, I went to Woolbeding, a pretty Georgian minor country house near Midhurst, to see its gardens, which are open on Thursdays. It is owned by the Sainsburys, the same family that owned the supermarket chain. The National Trust look after the beautiful gardens, and the public can walk right up to the house. The owners, however, barricade the windows from prying eyes by closing the shutters.

The grounds were beautifully manicured. The vegetables were organised in attractive patterns, that made the produce look good enough to eat, which is just as well.

The National Trust has taken over a number of country houses, mainly major ones, when aristocratic families can no longer afford the upkeep. They often live in a wing and use the rooms open to the public for special occasions, like Christmas. The death duties on these places are onerous.In Australia, there is is no inheritance tax. Not the case in Britain.

Even stately homes which are not National Trust, sometimes open the house to the public or rent the grounds for special events, like the International Horse Trials at Bleinhem Palace near Woodstock. This is not a royal palace. It is a ducal palace, owned by the Duke of Marlborough. The Duke of Beaufort hosts the Badminton Horse Trials at his stately home, Badminton House, in Gloucestershire – where Prince Charles hangs out nearby at Highgrove. Dukes are very high up the aristocratic pecking order in Britain. Dad called Mum the Duchess, but sadly there was no big house to be enjoyed.

Most palaces are owned by the Queen, and the Archbishop of Canterbury lives in one near the Houses of Parliament. He was, as I said, in attendance at the Church of England festival that Hugo and his cousins were at this week. I went for one day. It was in the grounds of a stately home.

So big whopping country houses in Britain, like Holkham Hall in Norfolk, are called stately homes if they are sometimes open to the public. ‘Mansion’ is rarely used to describe them. It is a term used in the United States, but not in Britain. A tad too showy.

Castles have defence features, like battlements, towers and often a moat. Think Windsor Castle, the Tower of London and Edinburgh Castle and are from the mediaeval period. The word for major country houses in France is obviously chateau, and it is often the case that it gives its name to a wine made in the neighbourhood.

Palladian architecture is my favourite. It is derived from the Venetian architect, Andrea Palladio. It is denoted by a symmetrical facade, often with a central portico, a columned or walled porch. I particularly like it when there is a symmetrical triangle over the portico, in the style of Greek and Roman ancient buildings.

So I better get going, so that I can start cooking.

 

Today the weather is stable and sunny.

Yesterday, the game of tennis in Haslemere was fun. As we were on court amongst the roses and lavender, an enormous, thundering Chinook, a double rotor RAF helicopter, passed overhead. They are majestic, enormous and make a loud bass ‘der, der, der’ sound at regular intervals.

On our last trip to Norfolk with the Barbers in 2002, my 40th year, we drove past RAF  Marnham near the coast, home to four squadrons of Tornado fighter jets. Some of the pilots were putting the flying beasts through their paces, just like in Top Gun, one of Tom Cruise’s first films.

I stopped the car and Anna, Hugo and I climbed up through the sun roof and sat on the roof to watch the show. The Tornados went overhead, just above us, towards the landing strip on the base. Just before they landed, they used their thrust reverse to take them to the skies again, with full acceleration and with flames bursting from their rear. As they climbed to a safe altitude, they rolled and climbed vertically and dipped vertically. It was thrilling. At their fastest, these jets can go twice the speed of sound (we often heard them breaking the sound barrier at the beach).

A few years back, I was visiting Mr and Mrs California in Los Angeles. They organised the greatest thrill of my life; it surpasses all others. I was admiring a photo of a Tucano, a stunning British fighter jet. Mr California caught me gazing at it, and he asked me if I’d like to go for a ride. My Dad, Stan, had died a couple of months before, and I thought, “Go on. You only live once.” Before I could change my mind, I agreed.

The next day, I went to the local airstrip and met Dwayne, an ex-fighter pilot with the US Marine Corps. He was my pilot. I was hardly going to be his ‘wing woman’.

I trusted him one hundred percent at first sight. He was a courteous, rangy Oklahoma man, but I knew that he had the right stuff – heroism, gutsiness and competency. I was told that he had seen action.

I was shuffled into a room where Dwayne took me through safety procedures. Afterwards, he said, “You didn’t take a word of that in.” He was right; I had not. Too nervous. He looked amused.

So out we went to the most beautiful flying bird you can imagine. Dwayne started checking bits and pieces on the plane. I was told to climb up onto the wing and climb in. Mr California put a skull cap on me, then a helmet, and then he strapped me in. He explained that the parachute had been disconnected. “Oh well,” I thought, “If I’m going to peg it, at least I’ll go in style.” At this point I had not told Geoff or the children of my flying plans.

Mr California then explained that the one thing that I was not to touch was a lever to my right hand, as it was the ejector mechanism. I was petrified that I would accidentally fall on it, so I held my hands most of the time whilst airborne. I kept on imagining that I would have an involuntary spasm and land on it.

Mrs California was taking photos and recording the whole thing. At one point she asked me how I was feeling. I could faintly hear her questions, but I couldn’t answer them as my heart was beating out of my chest. I just muttered without looking at her, “I feel strange.” Like I was in a dream, but I was not a dream. I was living the dream. Again, Mr and Mrs California proved to be dream makers.

 

Once airborne, all my fears disappeared. I felt like Meryl Streep in Out of Africa. Because of the transparent canopy I could see everywhere. We flew up the stunning Malibu coast line. The one thing I told Dwayne, through the walkie talkie, was that I did not want to do a roll! I felt like I was in heaven.

I shall never forget the beauty of the Tucano, nor Dwayne.

Today, I am going to a National Trust garden – Woolbeding – near Midhurst.

 

I

 

 

Today is grey and overcast. It has been Aussie-style summer now for a few weeks. I have loved the sunshine.

Yesterday, I headed off to the South Coast, where the Church of England Festival was on. Both the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London were speaking, and it was fantastic to see so many young people there amongst the 7,000 delegates. I am afraid the media are wrong. The church is not dying in this country, and it is doing an amazing job in prisons, amongst the marginalised, amongst those that the State has forgotten. Sorry, I just don’t accept that they are a bunch of self-righteous prigs.

Music plays a huge part in the festival. And as you know, I love music, moving to the beat. I am a disco queen at heart.

Just before my 40th birthday, we visited Down Under over New Year. Hugo was five and Anna was almost seven. We were hanging out in the communal garden which my brother Shaun’s family share with the Davis family, our mutual great friends. They built two identical houses together in their early twenties and, being friends, they did not bother to erect a fence. The result was a children’s paradise, where my children played every time they visited.

Gill Davis loves a party, but not the sort where you get plastered, the sort where you dance and have fun. She is my kind of gal. So as the evening wore on, the barbecue had gone cold, and we were all a little bored.

For as long as I have known the Davis family, they have kept a dress up box. They are born performers – their children have all entered the arts.

Before you could say “Cooee”, Gill had the three Sheilas dressed and ready to perform on the verandah, our impromptu stage.

We were dressed in as much ill-fitting, sparkly kit she could lay her hands on. The trio of ‘Gill, Sandy and Wendy’ came out with a bang. Think Meryl Streep’s trio in Mama Mia. We moved and sang through as many dance songs as Brett, Gill’s husband, could play.

The children sat in a row on a garden bench, agog at what was unfolding before them.

What was the reception? My children – they had never seen their mother ‘let her hair down’ like this in England. They displayed a mixture of awe, anxiety and admiration. The Potts and Davis children, didn’t bat an eyelid. They had seen it all before.

Eventually, all the children joined in on the ‘stage’, even Hugo, who was quite shy at that stage.

It has to go down as the best, and healthiest – we had no time to drink – New Year’s Eve party.

Today, I have a charity tennis match. It is in aid of preventing depression amongst young people. It is at a gorgeous house in Haslemere. It is like Manderley in the chilling book Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier (filmed by Hitchcock). It has huge rhododendrons lining the driveway and framing the garden. A splendid place to play tennis.

And very English. As different as you could imagine to the garden I danced my heart out in almost fifteen years ago.

 

Today is again pleasant.

Yesterday, the boiler man came to instal a new boiler, so I was stuck at home at the Old Rectory.

I decided to sort through my wardrobe. I found some glittery stuff from the 80s, my disco days in Oz. I doubt I shall ever don them again, unless we are asked to some 80s themed party.

Today I am off to the South Coast to catch up with some friends who are at a Church of England festival. Hugo is camping there with his cousin. They left on Friday night with the car ‘choc a bloc’ full.

The Archbishop of Canterbury is attending. He is godfather to my eldest nephew. He goes way back with Geoff’s brother, Jono, from their Paris days. Jono was the curate of St Michael’s Anglican Church on the Rue Saint-Honore, tucked behind the British Embassy. Later he was in Versailles with his wife, Sue, and the rest of the family.

I am particularly looking forward to catching up with Mrs California, who I had dinner with the other night at the Wolseley restaurant. Mr and Mrs California have made so many of my dreams come true since I met them 20 years ago. I think of them as the ‘dream makers’, certainly ‘party makers’, as they throw the best parties you can dream of. They left London to return to the States in 2008, and they set up home in Pacific Palisades, not far from Santa Monica, with their children. Before they left they had a going away party, and you had to go as a film or music star. I went as Madonna, who I grew up with really. We are about the same age.

When Dad died, Mrs California suggested I pop over to Los Angeles to see her. It was heading into winter in England, so I jumped at the chance. One of the surprises she organised was to go to the television talk show, The Ellen show. Ellen Degeneres is huge in America. She hosted the Oscars. Mrs California is always working out what she thinks you would love to do, and then she makes it come happen.

When you finally reach your seats at the studio, there is a DJ who whips you up into a frenzy for about an hour before the show starts. There are so many endorphins rushing around your body, that you are genuinely bursting out of your skin with excitement when Ellen finally appears.

Just before the show began, the producer appeared to explain the rules: that we had to be dancing and jumping and clapping when Ellen walked out onto the stage. He would tell us to keep going by moving his hands up and down with his palms to the ceiling. As soon as he turned his hands face down to the ground we had to shut up and be still.

And this would be the form during the various breaks in the show. You had to dance between the breaks so the energy didn’t lag, and then clap and jump and dance hysterically when Ellen started again.

Ellen began the show by dancing up and down the two aisles, but she also dances down one row connecting the two aisles. We were in that row. But we were told that we could not touch her as she passed by. If you watch the show no one ever touches her. I was just a little bit tempted to touch her.

We taped the first show that had someone from Modern Family, Cam. Then Ellen explained that we were going to pretend it was a different day and tape a second show. She said it would be worth it. That there was a very special guest.

She has fantastic guests: movie stars, music stars, tv stars. They all clamour to be on her show.

Michelle and Barack Obama have been on her show. She is so influential.

So off she went to change into a whole new outfit so that she would look like she had gone home to bed and come in the next day.

We started dancing away again to get pumped up for the next show. I was really jet lagged, so I went into this routine where I did the same thing over and over again to conserve energy. I was on autopilot, just jumping up and down and and yelling, “Yeah!” over and over again.

The moment came when Ellen introduced the next guest. The whole show would be devoted to her. Not just a bit of the show.

Out walked Madonna. I genuinely went ballistic with excitement. Here she was – The Material Girl – with an entourage of fantastic male dancers. I hugged Mrs California. She had made another dream come true.

 

 

 

The weather has broken as they say in Oz, which means that the heat wave has vanished, to be replaced with milder weather. It is pleasant, but the day has no intensity, like when the sun mercilessly beats down out of a cloudless, blue sky. It makes you feel alive. Or it does me.

This morning started with an unpleasant job, to somehow catch Domino’s first pee of the day. The vet wants to test it after he collapsed in Nicky’s field. After donning a new pair of marigolds – washing up gloves – I managed to catch just enough in a large white bowl, until he worked out what was going on and ran off. I sensed he felt emasculated.

Friday was another scorcher. I took Domino for an early walk at the Hurlingham Club before the temperature climbed to dizzy Aussie-heights. I rarely walk to music, but the sunshine put me in a dance mood. It was the sort of weather I woke up to so many times as a teenager, with the promise of fun in the sun.

So I plugged in my IPhone and set off around the perimeter of the Hurlingham Club grounds, along the Thames to the South and through beautiful, pristine, manicured gardens.

I worked my way through Madonna’s famous dance tracks for the next 45 minutes. Before long, I was singing out loud to the lyrics and wiggling my booty when the pheasants and stags were out of sight. John Travolta never looked so good!

The truth is that I was a disco lover in my teens and twenties. On Friday nights, I chucked my school uniform and vice captain badge, and headed to Bardwell Park RSL club. (RSLs are everywhere in Sydney, and they are clubs for returned service men, but everyone uses them.) That was the venue for the hottest disco in the area – that is, in our suburban St George region. Attending the disco required big hair – think Farrah Fawcett from Charlie’s Angels, glittery clothes and platform shoes. And a fair amount of war paint. Accessories included glittery headbands, chokers and big, costume, fake jewellery – think Crystal Carrington in Dynasty.

Olivia Newton John, Australia’s home-grown darling, had smashed it by turning from ‘butter couldn’t melt in her mouth’ Sandy in Grease, to ‘hot chick’ when she brought out her Physical album in 1980. I was 18 and worshipped the ground she walked on.

In those days, remember, every new hit had an accompanying video that was televised. We salivated for the next Abba song in the 1970s, which immediately went to number one on the charts. I, of course was Agnetha the blonde, and Karen Nosworthy was Anni-Frid the brunette. How did the Abba men get these gorgeous women to marry them, when they were not, strictly, that good looking? I was too young to realise that looks aren’t as important as character and talent.

I was in love with Duran Duran and their glamorous videos with supermodels showed me a world beyond Bexley North. I thought that David Bowie was the height of cool: “Put on your red shoes.” Who can forget a young Jerry Hall dancing in to Brian Ferry’s Let’s stick together, dressed in a tiger dress.

At the core of me, I am still a “Dancing Queen, only seventeen”, although that facet of me rarely emerges these days. Sadly!!!

As I turned the corner to the cricket pitch at the Hurlingham Club there was a gardener tending to a bed of flowers, but he had stopped working to smile at me, grinning from ear to ear.

I was singing at the top of my lungs to Madonna’s Vogue.

Come on, vogue

Let your body move to the music

Hey, hey, hey

Come on, vogue

Let your body go with the flow

You know you can do it

It isn’t exactly British to sing lyrics like that. Especially with so many pheasants and stags in the vicinity.

But then again, I’m an Aussie Sheila.

 

Another lovely summer’s day yesterday. Blissful.

We had a spoiling dinner at The Ivy Chelsea after an evening game of tennis at the Hurlingham Club. Mr and Mrs Springbok, our previous neighbours from Clapham days, were our charming hosts. They had just returned from a stint in South Africa.

As we were approaching the restaurant door, Geoff informed me that Spencer, from Made in Chelsea, was hanging around the front door. With his brother, James, the investment banker, who is engaged to Pippa Middleton. She was nowhere to be seen.

I was shocked that Geoff knew them. Reality television is not his scene in the slightest, apart from I’m a Celebrity – Get Me Out of Here, set in the Aussie Jungle. I think he reads every newspaper in circulation. Once in publishing, always in publishing!

Mrs Springbok was hobbling. She was wearing glam flip flops as a result of badly stabbing her toe. Not exactly what you wear to The Ivy, but she had no choice. She still managed to look regal and sophisticated.

I wore flip flops, what Aussies call thongs, most days during the summer in Oz. The dress-code was simple and casual in the 70s and 80s. A t-shirt, shorts and flip flops – with a bikini underneath. Men wore the same, minus the bikini. During work hours, of course, the dress code for professionals was smart, formal. Dark suits for the men. Demure dresses for women. But casual out of the office. You don’t see many Aussie blokes in tweeds and brogues. With pink or bright green socks.

I had to take Domino to our London vet yesterday, who is also the Queen’s vet, as he was still not himself after collapsing in Nicky’s field. It is in a tiny terrace house, a stone’s throw from Hyde Park. And I struck up a conversation with a very well spoken gent, whose dog had eaten rubbish left by picnickers in Green Park. He was in a perfect linen suit, with a pink, silk, polka-dot tie and matching handkerchief in his breast-pocket. Aussie men don’t often dress so meticulously or flamboyantly. It’s just too hot.

With the influx of hot weather, it is lovely to be able to wear a floaty summer dress. To not be covered in layer upon layer to keep warm. It’s liberating. I am wearing flip flops today too. Even though that is  unusual in London, especially in Chelsea. I just want to feel like an Aussie Sheila when the sun is belting down.

Anna arrived safely in Bogota, Columbia. She caught the last shuttle bus to the hotel! Her friend, Hettie, who has been travelling since she graduated with Anna from Cambridge last summer, will be with her soon.

There is something magical about the moment you see someone you love, family or a great friend, after a prolonged period. It is euphoric. Just like the opening and closing scenes in Love Actually, documenting real life loved ones being reunited at an airport. In fact, one mother and daughter from Queensgate, where Anna was at school between the age of 9 and 16, were unknowingly filmed hugging at the airport.

 

 

I felt that way many times, when we arrived in Sydney airport. Seeing Dad, who always picked us up, after the doors opened as we cleared customs. Geoff’s parents were separated for ten years in total of their fifty year marriage, due to their African-English split lives. Tony worked all over Africa and, at times, Eve had to be in England for the children. Imagine their reunions. But goodbyes – not very keen on them.

I shall look forward to seeing Anna after five weeks.

 

 

 

 

Today is lovely. It is not a scorcher. Mid 20s. Not over 30 degrees. London is no longer boiling.

Yesterday, I spent the day with Anna by the pool at the Hurlingham Club. I feel like an Aussie when I am near a pool. I was on the committee to refurbish it a few years ago.

Anna was up at the crack of dawn to catch her plane today to Columbia in South America. Geoff drove her to Heathrow. She didn’t look like a young woman of 22 when she kissed me goodbye. She looked like my little girl. The one I used to walk to school, clutching her little hand, with her hair in ribbons. For days I have been thinking of the eighties smash hit Romancing the Stone, with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner; they leave the tourist route and end up in hot water. It was their breakaway film. Hopefully Anna won’t be captured by drug barons like them.

The recent weeks, however, with the tragedy of Nice and Instanbul, have shown that nowhere is really 100 percent safe. Everybody senses that.

My last advice to her was not to touch the toilet on the plane. “Use your elbows to open the door,” I instructed. OCD or what! I did remember to say that I loved her.

If you know me well, you know that I have an inbuilt radar to detect if there are celebrities in the vicinity. Yesterday, even though I have not watched an episode of Made in Chelsea, I spied Hugo Taylor by the Hurlingham pool. I knew it was him, as he was in the Australian jungle reality show: I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. It is shot near Cairns, not far from Port Douglas, where we holidayed with the Potts family in 1995. Anna was a little over one year old.

Ant and Dec, famous double-act hosts, lead the antics, where celebrities are made to eat kangaroo balls and possum’s testes, or be covered in a multitude of insects, in bush tucker trials. The public vote for them to do the bush tucker trials. And they pick on ones that they don’t like or who are a bit pleased with themselves. It is excruciating to watch at times. Many of the celebs are trying to kickstart a dying career. And for many it has worked, like Aussie Peter Andre. The show is broadcast around Christmas time, and I can see the Aussie summer day by day. It cheers me up.

I told Anna that I’d spied Hugo. She told me that he was with his girlfriend who had also been on the show, and that the glamorous woman on the next sun lounger was also on the show.

After cooling down and donning a pretty frock, I headed to the Wolseley in Picadilly. Just next to the Ritz. I adore the architecture in that area: near Bond Street, Burlington Arcade Royal Academy and Buckingham Palace. Mrs California had already arrived, and she was seated with four friends. I was the last. It was wonderful to see my friend, amongst friends. I miss her terribly.

The Wolseley is an all day brasserie serving excellent food, but the interiors are the big draw for me. It was the fictitious Fidelity Fiduciary Bank in Mary Poppins. It has sandstone vaulted ceilings, combined with glossy black lacquer and dazzling gilt detail on the furnishings. It is sumptuous.

Just as we were starting our main course, Mrs California looked up and said, “Oh look, here comes someone famous.” The Wolseley is renowned for its famous clientele. It was her husband, Mr California, our surprise dessert guest. She was teasing us. He squeezed into the middle of the bench. The truth is that they have a lot of exposure to film stars in Los Angeles. They are living the dream.

I swear what happened a split second next is true. I thought silently, “I wonder if there actually is anyone famous here tonight?” Stephen Fry was sitting beside me last time I was there, which is very occasionally.

I looked directly to my right and, with no delay whatsoever, I saw as clear as day Daniel Day Lewis a few tables away. He is such a big star. My heart missed a beat. I love his films. He looked genuinely nice. He was smiling and chatting to his dinner companion. He didn’t seem uptight, worrying that someone, like me, might accost him on the way to the bathroom. I did immediately go to the bathroom to get a better look at him. I am shameless. I admit it.

Today, I am doing jobs. The service person is checking that the pumps to the basement are in good order, otherwise we’ll be flooded. That sort of thing. Tonight we are going to The Ivy in Chelsea, with Mr and Mrs Springbok. Before that some tennis. Make hay while the sun shines.

 

Yesterday was a scorcher. It was Aussie hot. It wouldn’t have shocked me in the least if the South Downs had ignited, like an Aussie bushfire.

I headed over to Nicky Barber’s farm in Winchester to pick up a tent for Hugo, and I also wanted to catch up with Nicky. We headed off across her almost ripe barley and wheat fields. At first, we didn’t realise how hot it was. Her two springer spaniels and Domino bounded along, but before long they were wildly panting. Behind me I heard Nicky say, “Oh no.”

I turned to find that Domino had suddenly collapsed. He isn’t drinking enough water in this heat. He doesn’t realise he has to. He has lived in a tepid or cold climate during his short two year life. I was worried.

His collapse was some way from home. In fact, it was half way across Nicky’s 200 acre farm. I had to pick him up and carry him home. And he is a slightly plump Italian greyhound. Ramblers (walkers) were crossing the field towards us, and when we reached them, one of the ladies kindly offered Domino her water.

For a split second I felt like I was at Auntie Wilma’s farm, Iventure, in the grasslands of New South Wales, just before the Outback. All around me were sun-ripened agricultural fields, under a hot, beating sun.

I have a vivid memory of a sunny afternoon during winter at Iventure. It was about 4pm; it gets dark in Aussie at 5pm in the winter. I was fifteen and dreaming of what my future would become. I was plump and unsophisticated. Who would I marry? Where would I live? What would I do? What would life look like?

Did you wonder those same things?

Auntie Wilma asked me to do a job. She interrupted my daydreaming.

There were hay bales in the field behind the house, just over the hill. They needed turning or the underside would rot. So off I set on my own in the setting sun. I remember coming over the brow of the hill and seeing blocks of golden hay basking in the sunlight. It was like a Van Gogh painting. They filled me with some inexplicable hope and joy. So I ran down the hill, and then I skipped amongst the hay bales, flinging them over one by one.

One of my favourite books, probably my most favourite, is Anna Karenina, by the Russian author, Leo Tolstoy. He wrote before the Russian revolution in 1917, when Russia became Communist and the Tsarist autocracy was eliminated; the Tsar, his wife and children were executed by the proletariat, the workers.

Tolstoy was a Russian aristocrat, a Count. He owned an estate. He was rich. He owned lots of serfs, legally bound to him, who did the manual work on the estate, much of it by hand, as there was only basic machinery. They sweated and strained to bring in the crops with their scythes. And they were happy and cheerful on the whole. Life was simple.

Tolstoy saw a beauty in the serfs’ connection to the land through labour. Lenin, in Anna Karenina, is loosely based on Tolstoy himself; the novel is semi-autobiographical. Lenin, like Tolstoy, renounced the hedonistic pleasures and indulgences in life, to join the serfs in their work. He saw that there was a nobility and dignity in their efforts.

I agree. There is something majestic about being connected to nature through sweaty endeavours. I sound like a greenie, but there we are. I make no apology. At Iventure, I hoped and prayed that one day I would marry a farmer. I did not. But at least I have a friend who is a farmer, my mate Nicky. I am looking forward to watching the harvest with her.

Today, I am spending the day with Anna, named after Tolstoy’s spectacular novel, as she is off to South America tomorrow. In the evening my dear friend from Los Angeles is hosting a dinner at the Wolseley.

 

Aussie style weather is forecast for today. Yippee!

Yesterday, I enjoyed the weather, and I tried to not feel too guilty about it. How often does  Britain enjoy the same weather as St Tropez or the Costa del Sol in the summer? It feels like holiday time here in Hampshire. It is easy forget that a lot of Londoners are sweltering in the crowded underground or overland trains. Outdoor workers must be keeling over. Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.

The first year of the Millennium was eventful for us: Anna needed plastic surgery, we rented Corn Close Cottage in the Cotswolds, Hugo began school at Eaton House, and I began work for Mr and Mrs Connecticut on their seaside home in Salcombe.

The year before, however, was a bit tepid – a bit blah. I was made redundant by the American law firm I worked part time for. There was not enough work, and the insurance policy we were helping a Lloyd’s syndicate to launch – failed to launch. Geoff was working hard at his new job as Finance Director for Centaur Media. The weather in Norfolk during our summer holidays with the Barbers – was bad.

The new year arrived. I felt down. Maria Guyard, the beautiful Swedish mother at Anna’s school, suggested I take the children to Club Med Sandpiper Bay in Florida. I used some of my redundancy money to fly to the sun in January, 2000. Geoff couldn’t take a break from his new job.

Sadly, I discovered on arrival that the resort was not on a bay connected to the sea. It appeared to be on an inland lake. Big disappointment. The day after we arrived we hit the pool for the first half of the day. At lunchtime, I wandered over to Reception to ask when the trip to Disneyland Orlando was scheduled. I had promised the children this “experience of a lifetime”. The receptionist said in her super-southern-American voice, “I am sooo sorry Ma’am. That trip left this morning.” I asked when the next one would be. “After you leave” was the response. She broke the devastating news with a big smile, revealing orthodontically-perfected, pearly-white nashers.

I promptly went into meltdown. I started speaking very quickly in a high-pitched, stressed voice. I explained that we had come all the way from London to visit Disneyland, apart of course to visit Club Med which was “marvellous”, blah, blah blah. She said that I would have to hire a van. “How much would that cost?” I asked. “US$200,” she smiled.

Any parent in my shoes would have done the same thing, if they could. I coughed up the money.

The driver turned up in a very large recreational vechile. I am not fatist, but he was very large. He could barely squeeze out of the driving seat. To make matters worse, I had no idea that Disneyland was so far away from the resort. It was a two hour drive there: along highways that were flat, sparsely inhabited, with little scrubby vegetation. And swampland. We were in a backwater.

At this stage Anna was 5 and Hugo was 4. They got really bored. I kept their spirits up by saying banal things like, “It’s almost time for the ride of our lives!” or “Wait to you have a cuddle with Micky Mouse!”

Finally, we were there. After five tedious hours at the resort, as the children were too small to go on many rides, we met our driver to make our way back to Club Med. After about an hour on a badly lit, deserted highway, the RV broke down. Mr Driver told me that we would have to sleep in the van, as they could not get a replacement vehicle to us until the next morning. I snapped. “I will not pay you a penny!” I muttered through clenched teeth. He thought I’d paid. Somehow he radioed that a vehicle must be found for the Hysterical Mother from Hell.

Out of the black night came, like a panther, a stretch limousine. And out stepped a cowboy of a man, named Bear. Sadly, he did not look like Bear Grylls. He looked like he’d seen and done a few things in his time. Finally, we were safely back on the road. I took in my surroundings. The interior of the limousine was padded in red velvet, and there were cheap glass decanters in the doors filled with yellow spirits. It felt like a lot of action had gone down in this limo!

Bear wound down the glass partition between us. “Ma’am, is there anything I can do for you?” I nodded. “Yes, we need food.” After McDonalds – we were awash with fast food – Bear struck up conversation with me. Being Aussie, I couldn’t help but to engage. I couldn’t freeze him into silence. Now I can, but then I couldn’t.

As Bear dropped me off, he handed me his card and said, “I’d sure like to show ya’ll around tomorrow.” I muttered that I thought we’d be very busy. Still the phone rang and rang and rang. And it wasn’t Geoff. I told Geoff to ring three times, hang up and ring again. A code to avoid Bear.

Apart from the Disneyland trip, we had fun by the pool, and the children went to Kid’s Club. Gave me a bit of respite. I often talked to an extended family by the pool. At the end of the holiday one of them said to me, “Why did he divorce you? You seem so nice.”

Today I am off to see Nicky at her farm. She has been pulling weeds out of a field that kill livestock. She is a trooper.

 

 

 

 

It is well and truly a hot summer’s day, in the ilk of a summer’s day in Australia.

On Friday, I took Domino down to Emsworth, and we walked along the coast. The tide was out and, the boats were a long way away. It is not the same as Salcombe in Devon, where we holidayed for a few years when the children were very young. But it shares big tides, big skies and lots of boats. The boats are afloat and ready to move when the tide is in, or they are marooned and look forlorn and dejected, lolling on their sides, waiting for the sea to return and make voyage possible.

After our early summer holidays in Salcombe, I dismissed the idea of it being part of the fabric of our lives. But at the end of 2000, something changed that, positively, for good. A close friend and her husband, who I shall call Mr and Mrs Connecticut as that is where they live (a pheasant and stag amongst the Yankees), asked whether I could recommend someone to help with the interiors of their new house in Salcombe, down near South Sands. It was an ex-guest house, with stunning views through the headlands – possibly one of the best views in Britain. There were five bedrooms in the main house, and there was also a loft dormitory, perfect for youngsters. There was garage with space underneath, which could be turned into overflow accommodation.

I cheekily suggested me. They didn’t flinch. By then I had undertaken several building projects at Elms Crescent, our house in Clapham. I had cut my teeth on it!

They said that they would like to hear my thoughts. We arranged a site visit. I pitched for the job in the sitting room.

The house was tasteless. It had curved arches between rooms, which were of the wrong proportion. Walls eclipsed the views when you reached the ground floor. The bathrooms were avocado green, although thankfully they were in the right place in the bedrooms overlooking the sea.

In my mind’s eye, I saw a plan. Don’t forget my father, Stan, and my brother, Shaun, are superb builders. I watched them work over the years.

I took a deep breath and started to explain my ideas. I said that two walls on the ground floor should be removed so that you could see the sea immediately when coming down the stairs, that French doors should be installed in the kitchen and dining room to maximise the view, that the ground floor should be open plan from the kitchen to the dining room to the double drawing room, that all curved arches should be squared up and that large bespoke doors should be installed between the dining and drawing room for privacy or quiet. I wanted a New England look inside, with shaker panelling low down, with a blue rather than green palate, to reflect the sea.

They loved my ideas and hired me. They were exceedingly generous in my remuneration. They were just wonderful. It was a project of a lifetime. I made some mistakes. I put the loo under a sloping ceiling, so Mr Connecticut bangs his head if he isn’t thinking.

Mr Connecticut had not seen the house in the nine months since work commenced at the end of 2000. I went down to check it was in order the week before they were due in August 2001, and to my horror I found that it was far from ready. The builders were working around the clock.

I arrived with my friends Niki and Jo and all our children (Mrs C suggested that I combine work with a little holiday), to find that there were workmen swarming around the house like ants. Instead of enjoying the finished project and doing last minute styling, we were climbing over saws and nails. I was a nervous wreck that it wouldn’t be finished in time. Thankfully, the weather was superb like today is promising to be, and we spent all out time at the beach.

Phew, the paint was just about dry when the family arrived. The moment came to unveil my work. I shall never forget seeing Mr Connecticut’s look of joy when he arrived on the ground floor, and he took in the breath-taking view.

And being their friend, I am loaned the house off season from time to time, and we are invited to visit when they are in situ. What a gift. This couple are hospitality personified. Just like the Keelings, who holiday there with them and are their best friends.

And being a fish out of water in Britain, it is magical to be back by the sea when we go there. I always think of that first visit with my parents, Stan and Bev, and I feel close to them when I’m there. It is a comfort, as Elms Crescent has gone, and they never visited the houses we moved onto.