Today is rumoured to be the last hot day of this summer. Looking out of the window of our Fulham house, it is incredible to believe that, very soon, grey clouds will appear again. It has been a long stretch of perfect weather, with pristine blue skies, day after day.

Yesterday, we had dinner with five other couples in a beautifully stylish house on Napier Avenue, just around the corner from the Hurlingham Club. I caught my breath as we were led through the elegant drawing room to the garden, revealed through a backless house, as the enormous glass doors had been concertinaed away to the sides. The impact was palpable and impressive.

Terracotta pots were dotted amongst the symmetrical olive trees at the far end. An Italian garden in London. All perfectly uplit. We had lovely wine and nibbles in the fresh, balmy air. So spoiling. And finally, we took our seats in the formal dining room. I glanced up behind the hostess. Some deceased pheasants and stags, immortalised in oil, stared down at us from their heavy gilt frames. The woman was not a looker. I was unsurprised to hear that she had never been married. The hostess, however, is elegant and striking. The gene pool has evolved favourably.

I was on best behaviour. I had to stuff the kangaroo in me deep down, like a joey hidden in a pouch, hoping that my head wouldn’t pop out at the wrong time.

There were rows and rows of cutlery. And I had a blank; did I talk to the gent on my left to begin with during the starter or to the right first? I was momentarily flustered, and stared hard at the hostess. She was talking to the bloke on the left. So likewise, I chattered away to the gent on the left, like a kookaburra, asking questions about his life and family.

Next I spoke to a Scot, Angus, to my right. He owned a large house in Aberdeen, which was once a seminary to train boys and youths for the priesthood. The chapel has been converted into the kitchen. Later the seminary moved to Blairs College, now closed. He described the house as symmetrical, with rows of windows and a door smack in the middle. It sounded reminiscent of large Scandinavian homes. I wondered if it was like the house in Larson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. A disturbing, but brilliant, film in both Swedish and English.

Before dinner, I had to do something about my hair. It had been wrecked by too much swimming and sun, in the last five weeks, since the stellar weather arrived. I had it cut by Sabrina at Richard Ward, who did the bridesmaids’ hair for the Royal Wedding of Will and Kate. I always love hearing about the day, over and over again, like reading a favourite book repeatedly. I was on my way through the salon, when I spied the Countess of Wessex, married to the Queen’s youngest son, Edward, having her hair done by Cristiano, the flamboyant Italian stylist who has been there forever. She is so pretty in real life, with striking blue eyes. And she is very normal. She was in the common parts with everyone else.

It is always a shock to see someone you expect to see from a great distance, through television or the press, up close and personal. It was like the time we went to the first parents’ evening at Hugo’s prep school, Sussex House, and Geoff sat next to, unwittingly,  Nigella. He looked smugly happy when he clocked her after a while. I will tell you about that tomorrow.

Now, I have to prepare for the Older People’s Tea and Concert committee lunch at my house. I can barely stand to turn the oven on in this  heat.

And later today, I will head back the Old Rectory.