The weather is still baking hot this morning. The sun will sizzle later, hot enough to fry an egg if I cracked it on a paving stone in the midday sun. It is as if all my pining for Aussie weather has “dreamed” it true, like the aborigines magic things up during their corroborees.

I drove back to the Old Rectory very early this morning before the traffic built up, to water the garden. It was parched.

I have vivid memories of my grandmother, Vera, Mum’s mother, religiously watering her roses after the sun went down, at her red brick bungalow in Ashbury, a suburb in Sydney. She longed for a romantic English rose garden in a climate that was not partial to a flower as delicate as a rose. Wattle, bottlebrush and waratahs, with their bright colours and robust forms, thrive in this dry climate.

We are having an Aussie style summer now in England. It is not the restrained landscape evoked by Vivaldi in his measured The Four Seasons, the 18^th century classical violin concerti he composed to mark the changes, season by season, in an English year. No, the sort of weather we are having, at the moment, is definitely full on heavy metal.

After Anna secured a place at her new school in South Kensington, Queen’s Gate Junior School, we had to find somewhere to live as soon as possible. Elms Crescent sold quickly in September, and we had to vacate by November.

I found a tiny little house in Elystan Street to rent, around the corner from The Conran Shop and Ralph Lauren at Brompton Cross. We didn’t want to waste money on rent. However, there was nothing suitable on the market to buy. It was as cheap as chips for the locality. It had two small bedrooms, a bathroom, a tiny kitchen and the smallest sitting room you can imagine. When people visited they thought that the sitting room was the hall.

Most of our belongings went into storage. We would not see them for a year. I gave away a lot of furniture, as I knew that our house in Chelsea or Fulham would be smaller. I had my heart set on Chelsea. I wanted to be in the thick of it. I didn’t want to be a tourist. I wanted to be a local. I was dreamin’. The prices were exorbitant. It would take a miracle to find something within our budget. Prices were increasing alarmingly.

Still, I was comforted by the fact that Anna loved her new school. I would drop her off and then drive Hugo back over the bridge to Clapham to Eaton House, where he would need to stay for a year. Then I went for a cup of coffee, as the traffic back into central London would not clear until 10am.

Today, I will try to stay cool. Tonight, Anna and I are heading back to London.