Another lovely day; I can’t believe that the sun has still got its hat on. And hasn’t run away completely now that it is autumn.

Yesterday, I had a reunion with a few Sussex House (Hugo’g prep school) mothers at a Palestinian restaurant in Beswick Street, Piccadilly. Tabun Kitchen: completely down to earth, completely stylish and completely delicious. And the service is impeccable.

The owner is from Jerusalem: her father was from Bethlehem (I know of another descendant from there!!!), and her mother was from Jerusalem.

I wondered, sitting there in the West End, if Chelsea inhabitants stray much from the area, as it is a marvellous place to live? I was the only one who had jumped ship to Fulham; the rest continue to be loyal Chelsea residents. And they are all foreign: part of the EU (European Union, which Britain has left).

There was a Belgian (Chocolate); a German (Mercedes); an Italian (Ferrari/Pepperoni) and Spanish (Flamenco). And me, a bouncy kangaroo. They are beautiful, sophisticated, cultured and stylish: peacocks.

It was a fantastic afternoon. Time just went on for a bit. It slowed down, and we just stayed and had a good chin wag.

I just wish that there were more of these moments; where you can take life down a notch and just enjoy the connections. One main connection was our boys. No longer pre-teen, but men. We all gazed at photos of them in wonder. The transformation was extreme.

Today, I am back in my tennis shoes. Then I have an Hon. coming for lunch. Then a great pheasant for tea. Then another couple of pheasants for drinks.

At the end of the day, whether you are foreign, or a pheasant, the main thing is that you are a good egg.

A good friend, a trustworthy friend, a good person, a trustworthy person. Trust and kindness is what I hope for in a friend.

Everyone at the Palestinian restaurant yesterday fitted that description.

But there have been many more for me; in Australia, there were a few kind kangaroos who bounced with me, and in Britain many a pheasant has reached out.

I thank you all.

 

Today, Monday, is lovely: crisp, cool, calm, sunny weather. We are in October now, and autumn is promising to be dry and warm. A gift for me.

On Friday, I had no idea what the weather was like as I was head down. I was bouncing around like a startled kangaroo. I had so much to do for the weekend houseparty at the Old Rectory. The Spanish were coming like a slow but steady tango. Shopping, cooking, flowers in bedrooms and bathrooms, setting the tables, beds made, towels positioned. It would be worth it, as they extended great hospitality to us on a tour of Andalucia, a few years back now.

They are from hot climes. They may be dark haired and olive skinned, but they are kindred spirits.

I wanted everything to be perfect as Flamenco, the first friend I made at Hugo’s prep school, Sussex House, is legendary for her faultless hospitality. And Flamenco and her husband, a Brit, introduced us to another Spanish couple, who sent their sons to Harrow at roughly the same time as Hugo, our boy. They are from Vigo, Galicia, the largest exporter of fish in Europe.

I had the bright idea, last minute, of serving English wines, which are made in Hampshire and West Sussex, to go with each course. So Geoff and I bounced over to the Exceptional English Wine Company, at Cowdray Park in Midhurst, and sorted it before they arrived on Saturday. The gentleman from Vigo is a member of a renowned European Wine Club, so I thought he would appreciate it. He did. Some were better than others.

Harrow School – it was where I had to hand over my son to an institution; at the age of thirteen. It was heartbreaking for us, but probably a bit of relief for him. I had always tried to keep him firmly tied to my apron strings.

Hugo was again, for me, a very difficult pregnancy. Again, I almost lost him, as I almost lost Anna, in the first trimester. I wanted to keep him very badly, as I had wanted to keep Anna, very badly. On 11th December he was born, and I was grateful to get him to full term. He was perfect, and I could see that he would be handsome one day. He is.

When it came time for him to leave Sussex House and go to the equivalent of High School in Australia, I wanted him to go to either St Paul’s or Westminster, local to where we lived. He wanted to go to Harrow, to The Park house, part of a boarding school just north of London. I took him on the rounds, but he set his heart on going there. It is where Winston Churchill went. Eight British prime ministers boarded there.

Why? He often went to The Park from infancy, as his Uncle Rob was the resident housemaster. At Christmas, he sat amongst the Wilmots in The Park hall, off and on (we went to Oz too), and that is where he desired to be.

I don’t think I shall ever forget the day, the moment, when I left him to that great institution.

He was extremely happy there. But I clearly remember the moment when the Housemaster turned to the sixteen couples who had just deposited their sons into his care, and he said, “Could parents now say goodbye to their boys and leave.” Or words to that effect.

I felt like I’d been hit in the chest by a bullet. It was a living nightmare for me; countercultural. I had so desired to be a mother. Was this what you had to do in the land of pheasants and stags? I kissed him goodbye and sobbed in the car. He was thirteen and would sleep at Harrow most nights. That was the thing that got me: he would not be under my roof at night.

Maybe, whatever the age, you feel the loss. But it was sooner than I’d expected. But Harrow suited Hugo. I missed him terribly. But he was very happy. Sometimes, I would have a nap in his bedroom, just to smell him.