There is a thick mist this morning at The Manor House Hotel in Moreton-in-Marsh. I have been up for a few hours with Domino my canine companion.  At just after 6am the fire alarm rang briefly in my room. I looked out the window. No sign of the Fire Brigade, just a sleepy Cotswold town in Gloucestershire. I thought no more of it, and I went back to bed. I could, however, hear a distant fire alarm at the rear of the hotel. Was it a kitchen fire?

In fact, unbeknownst to me, there was a roaring chimney fire just behind my bedroom wall. I then started to hear rapid movement in the corridor. It was the real thing!

So what did I do? What I have always told do in a fire: leave the building? No, that is not what I did. As I couldn’t see smoke in the corridor, in haste, threw my jewellery on the bedside table into my handbag (no way was I going to lose my engagement ring), grabbed my computer, threw everything back into my hold all, and then, and only then, Domino and I made our way down two stories from the top floor. Madness. I was in a nightdress with my coat over it.

Bleary eyed guests apeared on the front pavement in various forms. Many had got dressed! Madness? Most had left all their belongings in their rooms, apart from car keys and phones. Sensible! They look bemused as I appeared, loaded with luggage, and walking Domino a short distance to where my car was conveniently parked in front of the hotel entrance. I was alarmed to see that the flames were exiting the chimney right above my attic bedroom.

They looked positively envious, as they watched me safely store all my possessions in the boot and slowly put on my jewellery. I may have been in my nightdress, without makeup, with dishevelled hair and leftover mascara, but I sparkled!

Finally, we were allowed into the lounge, where the staff eventually served tea and coffee. At 7.30am, they announced we could have breakfast, but no fried food as the gas was off. By now the fire brigade had arrived, and were beavering away. Dogs are not allowed in the restaurant. I ignored the rule. At 9.30am the fire brigade left, and Domino and I are now back in our room, bathed, dressed, teeth cleaned and with makeup applied. Me, not Domino! It is amazing how such simple rituals, if denied to us, become of paramount important in a crisis.

Yesterday, I made my way to Leamington Spa to see Hugo, at the house he shares with five other Warwick students. The dishwasher had broken, so you can imagine the state of the sink. I had brought Waitrose Chinese Meal for Two en route. At first, I wasn’t sure I could eat without gagging. But, Hugo managed to disinfect some plates and cutlery, and we sat in the sitting room, with that horrid oatmeal-type carpet below our feet.

Leamington Spa is grand in the centre, with neo-classical, cream stuccoed terraces, with a splash of linear, black wrought iron embellishments. It was a tonic to see my boy, so handsome and happy. Happy children, happy mother.

Today, I have a meeting for a charitable trust I am involved in, in nearby Adlestrop. In the meantime, I will visit a garden at Bourton-on-the-Hill; a garden I visited many moons ago with my sister in law, Wendy, and her baby son, Ryan. Then I will pop across the road to Batsford Park, where Nancy Mitford, who wrote about her class, the upper class, lived briefly in the early twentieth century. It inspired her famous book, Love in a Cold Climate. If I am feeling blue, I reread it at speed, and the clouds, metaphorically, lift.

What a dramatic start to the day. Domino has collapsed in a heap, and he is fast asleep on a comfy blanket.