The grey blanket lifted this morning and left London, revealing a promising blue, sunny sky.

In Hampshire, we have the key to the Cricket Club’s  gate, which leads out to a walk along an old military railway line. There are houses in sight, although there are a few fields with sheep and cattle, along the way. It is semi-rural.

On the weekend Domino and I set out on our usual walk from the Old Rectory. All of a sudden, Domino bolted, like lightning, after a ‘bambi’ which was grazing on some vegetation nearby. What an unexpected, delightful surprise. I felt like Helen Mirren in the film The Queen, when she sees a majestic stag whilst she’s resting.

This is how celebrities must feel when they are hounded by the public.

When Hugo started at Sussex House, in Cadogan Square, near Sloane Square, you could feel the electricity crackling in the air when Nigella, a mother in Hugo’s class, was in the radius. People tried not to look at her, but they couldn’t help looking. She is extraordinarily beautiful and poised. She was, and still is, Britain’s most alluring food journalist/chef – sorry Mary Berry and Delia Smith – you’re a bit mumsy. It is the way Nigella licks the spoon and stares saucily at the camera. But she also comes across as your best mate.

Shortly after Geoff sat next to her at the introductory evening for new parents, there was a coffee morning for mothers; fathers were welcome, but none could be seen. There she was, Nigella, standing like an Italian goddess, amongst the mothers. Somehow I ended up standing next to her – accidentally, erm, on purpose – when the head of the fundraising committee made her pitch for help with the Christmas Fair.

Nigella locked her big, brown eyes on mine and complimented me on my nails. I had painted them chocolate brown, and they looked like mini Smeg fridges. She liked chocolate obviously. She was always licking it off the spoon on her cookery programmes.

I bemoaned the fact that Geoff hated any nail colour, other than pretty pink. She commiserated. Apparently, Charles Saatchi, her husband, had fixed views on appearance as well. Well, how matey was that.

Could Nigella become my next bestie – best friend. Obviously not, but it was a nice idea.

Last night, it was Book Club nearby to me in Fulham. Everybody was on fine form after the stellar summer we have had. It was like feeding time at the zoo – the din of chat was as loud as a bunch of cockatoos landing on your verandah. No-one discussed the book, much, which I had chosen: Tim Winton’s brilliant Aussie saga Cloudstreet. A few had persevered and finished it. I was grateful. As it captures that life in Oz is about survival, food, family and luck/faith. And the water, the sea and rivers.

Just up Nigella’s street. Apart from the water bit.

Today, I have a mega game of tennis, and then I am meeting up with an old friend to walk around the Serpentine in Hyde Park. I want to bottle the sunshine and store it in my larder. Nigella would approve, surely.