It is beautifully warm for autumn today. I will take Domino for a long walk.

On Friday, I prepared at the Old Rectory for a London group of friends to visit over the weekend. I enjoy the process of preparing and hosting. Although, sometimes, I wish I could wiggle my nose and the preparation would be over in a jiffy.

I lay in bed the next morning, after a late dinner the night before, wondering what it would be like to be a Lady in bygone times, living in a big pile – think Lady Montdore in Love in a Cold Climate, the Nancy Mitford novel, or the Queen herself, never having to lift a domestic finger. Downstairs an army of staff would be ready to serve a buffet breakfast to guests in the dining room. They would have been up since the ‘crack of’ to prepare food and light fires.

Lady Montdore is depicted as a crashing snob in Mitford’s novel. Her high social status protects her from direct criticism, and it gave her unfettered license to be insensitive and rude to others further down the social ladder, without obvious repercussions. Abuse of power! Her comments make you both wince and laugh. When her beloved, estranged daughter, Polly, loses her baby at birth at the end of the novel, she declares, “So the poor little baby died, I expect it was just as well, children are such an awful expense, nowadays.”

She constantly refers to “having all this”, pointing to her lavishly wealthy lifestyle. “I love being so dry in here,” she says while being chauffeured to her stately home in the rain, “and seeing all those poor people so wet.”  An outrageous comment, or is Nancy Mitford highlighting the human temptation in any human heart to look down on those less privileged than us? In order to make ourselves feel better? How many times have I witnessed the arrogance of wealth? Wealth is no excuse for poor manners.

A friend of mine was in India recently. He was educated at Yale and is a successful banker. He has a huge, generous heart, like his wife. He got into a lift. The lift operator was from the lowest class. He asked him how his day had been so far. The lift operator visibly flinched as if he’d been hit. My friend asked what was wrong. He replied, “I am sorry, Sir, but it is just that no-one talks to me.” As a member of the untouchables, the lowest caste, the lift operator was invisible to most people. Maybe if the lift operator had been born into an upper middle class family in Connecticut, he would be a banker and not the lift operator.

I had set the alarm for 8am on Sunday morning to lay the breakfast table. Geoff and I are the ‘staff’. I like guests to have a lie in. I hate being helped in the kitchen. I have a routine, and I am too OCD to have it interrupted.

I have the breakfast process finely tuned now. Muesli/yogurt/fresh fruit from our garden or Waitrose OR bacon/eggs or toast/pastries. Done and dusted, easy peasy. Geoff is in charge of the fry up and tea/coffee, and I am in charge of the rest. We are dab hands at it now. We could open a B&B.

Many of my Sloane friends have someone to help in the kitchen during a Saturday night dinner party. At least then the place is cleared up for the next day. I can’t be bothered to organise it. I would rather just crack on. And I know where everything goes. And I like to think over the evening and debrief with myself, before hitting the sack after the others have gone to bed. Geoff is always up helping!