It is hot and humid today in London. I have just driven to Fulham from the Old Rectory. The autumn tennis season is about to ‘rev up’ at the Hurlingham Club, so I will be bouncing around like a kangaroo amongst the pheasants again.

The traffic, now that school is back, was back to its full capacity. It was gridlock coming down Putney High Street at 9am this morning.

Yesterday, I tried to garden, tried to do admin, tried to sort out clothes from summer to autumn, tried to sort life. Instead, I ended up doing nothing very convincingly. A wasted day, it felt. Even Domino sensed that I was in a pickle. I had the Sunday night feeling. I was skittish. Like a horse that wants to bolt.

At the beginning of 2004, I had to concentrate all my efforts on finding a house to buy in Chelsea. We were climbing the walls in our little rental house. Finally, I found a house on the Ten Acre Estate that I set my heart on, near World’s End, and Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. We had been outbid on a few houses by the time I saw it. I knew what I was looking for by now. I had honed my buying skills.

It was on Limerston Street, a cut through from Fulham Road to Kings Road, but it was perfect for us. It had two cinemas close by; my idea of heaven. Three bedrooms, but you could squeeze out an extra study on the top floor, and make a small sitting room in the basement with a view of the courtyard garden. It also looked down a treelined street and onto pretty gardens at the rear, so it was light and private.

I had done a few piecemeal projects in Elms Crescent, Clapham, but this house needed a full gutting. Rewiring, re-plumbing, waterproofing, decorating, new kitchen and bathrooms. Would my skills be up to it?

The elderly owners, an ex-Ambassador and his wife, had lived there for thirty years or more. It had damp in the basement kitchen, which like all houses in Chelsea, was half below street level. It had the typical black, wrought-iron staircase to an entrance at basement level, probably for coal to be delivered in bygone times, and then there was a staircase up to the front door, with ornate black railings on either side. The next floor up was originally used as the drawing room, as it had pretty balconies. Now it was the practise to make it a master bedroom and have your living area on the elevated ground floor.

The Ambassador took a shine to Geoff. We offered asking price. We always do if the price is right. No use in haggling and being outbid, in my opinion. It was accepted. The problem was, in this housing climate, sellers would accept a price verbally, and then use it to leverage up another interested party to an even higher price. It isn’t until contracts are exchanged after searches etc in the UK, that parties are legally bound to the sale.

The Ambassador told Geoff that he would not sell the property to anyone other than us. Music to our ears.

Matters were progressing swimmingly, until, of course, there was a glitch. The sellers could not find the correct paperwork for some building work they had undergone, many moons ago. Should we proceed?

It was nerve wracking, but we sorted it out while we were in Bruges for my 42nd birthday. We had to juggle calls with our solicitor with sightseeing, but finally, suddenly, everything dovetailed, and we were able to exchange contracts.

Bruges was fascinating. It was like being in a sinister film set. Very gothic, eerie and dark. We tried to hire bicycles to ride around the perimeter of the town, but they were all taken. The only bicycles that were available were for disabled children. The adult cycled while the child was belted into a chair in front.

The children were up for it, providing that we supplied hot chocolate after. I didn’t really think anything of it, until we saw people stop to stare at these two blonde children whizzing by. They either looked in admiration, as if to say “Good for you!”, or they looked in pity, as if to say, “How tragic!” It is strange how a sight can evoke two extreme reactions – either hope or pity.

Anyway, when we returned to London on the Eurotunnel from Brussels, we were a step closer to begin settled in Chelsea. We were owners of a new house. Now the work had to begin. I had to find builders.

Later, I am going to the Tate Modern to see the Georgia O’Keefe exhibition.