Today is my last diary entry for Diary of a Sloane Sheila, at least for now. 

In 1989, when I married Geoffrey, I joined the land of pheasants and stags in England.

The last twenty eight years in England has been a roller coaster. And a complete contrast to the first half of my life as a kangaroo in Australia, the sunkissed, majestic land of my birth. But England is green and regal, and I have embraced it. It has been kind to me. I have had the best of both worlds.

I try not to check the statistics of the diary; who is reading, how many and where? I have tried to write for the sheer love of writing. I have loved it – it has been joyful. Most mornings, I woke up and knew exactly what I wanted to write about. But the story is told, or so I think it is.

My life is ordinary, but extraordinary things happen to ordinary people. Don’t you feel that?

Mrs California had a party for her 50th in Los Angeles. She is the best party thrower imagineable. Think of the parties Jay Gatsby threw in The Great Gatsby. Hers rival them. And she is a dream maker. I went up in her fighter jet on one visit to see her, and I coasted along the beaches of Malibu, up in the heavens.

Her 50th birthday bash was a five day event. We had a red bus, with a handsome chaffeur, who ferried her girlfriends from London around: Hollywood, Warner Brotheres Studios, trendy restaurants, Rodeo Drive and the legendary party on the last night. The party planner made an exact replica of the famous restaurant, Trader Vic’s, a tropical Polynesian style restaurant/bar, where the ‘old school’ film stars, like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, hung out in their prime.

One morning, midway in the celebrations, we were told to wear comfortable clothes. We were heading for the pier at Venice Beach. A surprise awaited us. ‘Brilliant,’ I thought. ‘We’re off on a boat trip.’

We stopped at the fair ground. The treat was…wait for it…to learn to trapeze. I immediately said I couldn’t possibly, that I was afraid of heights. Nevertheless, I was cajoled into going through the training session. Before I knew it, I was climbing up a very tall circus ladder to a platform, where I was wired up, so that if I fell, I wouldn’t plummet too fast. I looked down when I reached the platform. People looked like ants on the ground. I was told to lean forward over the expanse, away from the platform. And then I was expected to become airborne at the moment the instructor gave the signal.

Leaning forward was one thing. Becoming airborne, another matter entirely. My heart was threatening to pound out of my chest.

The idea was to swing out, then wrap your legs over the bar, and then hang upside down, then grip the bar again, let your legs drop, and then swing again, and then finally drop into the net. It is all to do with physics. The momentum helps you to complete the tasks, not muscle power.

The first time all I could do was swing, hanging on for dear life.

I said I was happy to do just that. The instructor refused to let me stop. He explained that if I just lifted my legs when he gave the comand, they would find their way to the bar and go over it, so that I could hang upside down. I believed him. Up I went again.

Overcoming fear is a big thing. Taking risks is part of life, and if you can, then you can fly. I did it!!!

This diary has been a risk. Thank you for all the people all over the world who have had a peek. For those who read it all, thank you for your persistence. I have loved connecting with so many of you through it.

I started the diary for many reasons, but mainly for my mother, Beverley.

 

Today, the weather improved. It was an unheard of 15 degrees in London – and sunny.

I had a bad hair day this week. I went to Petersfield, the main town, near the Old Rectory, for a blow dry. Unless you have locks like Rapunzel, keeping a groomed look in the damp British winter is a challenge. There are a lot of women sporting baseball hats in the park, in an attempt to stave off the winter frizz. So if I have something special in the diary, I head to the hairdresser.

Sadly, I am no longer a natural blonde. I went dark whilst studying law; too many hours indoors in front of a book. So when the regrowth strip appears along my parting, like an airport runway, my hair needs even more grooming to look fresh – more regular washing.

So, back to my story. Earlier this week, I headed to a new salon in Petersfield. I was asked how I’d like my hair done. I replied that I would like “Movement…body.” She looked dubious that this could be achieved; my hair was scraped back in a messy pony tail.

One hour later…I left the salon looking like my grandmother after she’d had a perm. And it was more expensive than the Blow Dry Bars in London. The word ‘bouffant’ comes to mind.

Today, I am playing tennis again. My hair looks dreadful; the blow dry lasted about five minutes. The next day, I woke up and headed past a mirror. Now the hair had morphed into Medusa, the female Greek Goddess with snakes wiggling all over her head instead of hair.

It is a sad fact, but if your hair looks good, you feel good. Well, I do.

These days you tend to wear ‘fascinators’ to weddings, a little trinket in your hair like feathers. Back in the 80s and 90s, pheasants wore hats. It covered a multitude of sins.

I remember when I qualified for the Supreme Court of England and Wales in the early 1990s, I decided I needed a change of appearance. I treated myself to a new hairstyle. Such a mistake, to act impulsively, at a juncture in your life. After the cut, I looked like I had massive angel wings glued to either side of my head.

Geoff was not happy. He loathed it and even paid for me to head to an expensive salon in Albemarle Street, Mayfair, to rectify the situation.

The French hairdresser declared, “It’s all got to come off.” So, chop, the wings hit the floor, and I had a very severe bob, like Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue.

It’s time to head back to Richard Ward in Sloane Square and sort myself out.

The weather is rubbish. It’s now winter. It is grey a lot of the time.

Can my spirits withstand the grey and damp, when I have been raised in sunshine? Can a kangaroo jump around in the cold?

Just about. Reluctantly. But the cold does slow a kanga down.

Flamenco, my wonderful Spanish friend, took me, with a few friends, to the Arts Club in Dover Street, the street opposite The Ritz, in Mayfair, for lunch today. It was fabulous.

Afterall, Mayfair is the most prized address on the Monopoly Board; Mayfair with Park Lane have blue, denoting the Best Address, pieces. If you can get hold of one, you can collect a lot of rent ‘past GO’ on the board.

When there is mud piling up in nature, in the country, it is best to head indoors and to civilised London, from time to time. How about a gorgeous private club in Mayfair for lunch to forget the grey? What better antidote to winter?

Everybody looked groomed/civilised in the dining room. There were no disheveled guests in this establishment.

But was there joy?

I have been thinking about joy a bit of late, as I think it is a rare commodity. It is different from happiness, which I think is a litmus test for how things are going; that is, thumbs down or thumbs up depending on whether you had a good night’s sleep or not. Whether the stock market is up or down.

Joy is a feeling of sunlight in your belly, catching and swallowing light. It’s perhaps like looking at a child and watching him/her examine his/her hands as if they were Renoir paintings. And feeling that universal feeling of ‘wonderful’.

I had it today. The Arts Club is light, airy and stylish, like the members. I had joy, because I did not belong there. I was an intruder. I was stealing in a sense. So it made me glad, joyous, that I was in such a beautiful location with my friends. And I didn’t deserve it.

Joy, I think, is being somewhere and feeling as if you have been given a big bunch of roses, that smell fresh and like the best perfume you can’t afford. It is having an experience of pleasure, beyond your mundane expectations. It can be so simple. Like a breeze that brings the smell of salt from the sea. Or a piece of music that transports you to a sublime place.

At lunch, we talked of whether it was good to look back, to be nostalgic. I am not sure. For some, it can make you feel sad. The loss of loved ones. Or it can be a celebration of what is past. It is how you look at it. It depends on temperament.

I have a very precise memory that comes back to me again and again. I am about six years old. I have been swimming in the cold Aussie surf. Mum has got me out of my wet, damp swimmers and put me in warm, dry shorts and a t-shirt.

I am now in the back of the car. It is warm away from the sea breeze. I was cold, and now I am snug. I am weary. My limbs are tired from exertion in the sea. I am at rest. I relax. And joy wells up inside of me. Bubbles of it come to the surface. I remember the feeling. Like the sea foam. Welling up inside of me.

I think Joy is like a present that appears, unexpectedly, like a rainbow, and makes you feel that you are alive.

 

 

 

 

Last night, we were glued to David Attenborough’s second series, Planet Earth II. The cinematography was exquisite: capturing an opera of nature.

In one of his previous series, David visited the Great Barrier Reef, a stretch of coral clusters, 1400 miles long, a few miles off the coast of Queensland.

When the children were in their late teens, we went to Heron Island, which is one of David’s favourites. It is a coral cay, made up of sand and coral, covered with lush, tropical vegetation. The sea is swarming with effervescent fish, like in Finding Nemo, and the island is littered with thousands of migratory birds. Their noise is deafening. They mate all day and night – with sound effects!

The island, encircled with white virgin sand, is only 800 metres long and narrow, so you can walk around it quickly. It is a jewel.

The accommodation is basic: wooden huts. You eat in a communal restaurant, which is wire-screened, so that the birds can’t steal your food.

The coral reef, encircling the island, has lots of stunning fish, but it also teeming with manta rays and reef sharks. I found them frightening, but Hugo didn’t have an ounce of fear and swam up to them. The turtles were majestic, but scarce.

It looked like paradise, but it was not paradise. Let me explain.

Let’s start with the catamaran trip out to the island. We were told that the sea was rough; sea sickness pills had been recommended. We set off from a calm bay. Next minute, we were in large swell, facing 15 to 20 feet waves. I was facing the back of the boat, so I couldn’t see how large they were up ahead. But every few seconds, we lifted off becoming airborne, and then we crashed back down, over and over again, for an eternal two hours, until we were finally there.

Geoff was facing the front of the boat and could see the gigantic waves. I asked how big they were, as I white-knuckle gripped the table in front. He just put his hand up towards my face, as if to say, “Shut up.” I didn’t mutter another word. Just whimpered, pitifully.

After a while, almost all the passengers were throwing up. Somehow, we miraculously didn’t. I can tell you, it is true, that if someone is seasick they go green.

It felt like the boat was going to break in half.

When we disembarked at the island, I heard one passenger about to travel back to the mainland say, “It can’t be that bad. They look happy.” We were just euphoric to have survived. A number of passengers booked a helicopter return right there on the spot, before they had even checked in.

Highlight – watching the green turtles hatch and crawl to the beach to swim away. Ruined, because most of them were pecked off by hungry seagulls, and so few made it. It made me cry.

Highlight – snorkelling around the island. Ruined, as I told Geoff, and the children, to look at the black rocks, in the shallows, at low tide. Only they weren’t rocks. They were manta rays sunning themselves. I started yelling to leave them alone, as their sting can be fatal. As if they could hear – they were underwater. I was waving my arms around like a mad woman, just like a steward pointing to the exit doors on a plane. People on the beach were staring. Who was that crazy woman?

Thankfully, Geoff and the children realised what they were, when they started moving, like UFOs, vertically upwards from being, partially, buried in the sand.

I was never so glad to be off an island paradise. Thankfully, the boat trip back was calm.

I had a dramatic start to the day, that could have turned to despair if the outcome had been different. They say that cats have nine lives. What about dogs? If so, Domino used one up today.

There was bright sunshine early this morning at the Old Rectory. The AGA man was coming for a service mid morning, so Domino and I set out for an early morning walk.

We walked our usual way through farmland at the rear of the house, but he caught sight of a squirrel, and took off at break neck speed. He is in the same family as a greyhound, although much smaller, so he can shift like lightning.

He disappeared around a corner out of sight. I was yelling at him to come back, as he was heading into someone’s drive. As if you can stop a dog when instinct has kicked in. I caught up with him and called him to come. He stubbornly sat down. I kept yelling for him to come. He normally does. In exasperation, I went to fetch him.

To my horror, when I reached him, I realised that a twelve feet cattle grid, with large gaps between steel bars, was between us. He should have broken every one of his very slim legs. He broke one as a puppy. Nursing him almost tipped me over the edge. He was unable to walk, and I had to carry him everywhere for six weeks.

I carried him over the grill and examined him. He had a few grazes on his elbows, but apart from that he was walking fine. I was incredulous. How had his legs not slipped down the gaps between the steel bars and snapped like twigs?

The vet checked him over. No serious damage, just a few scrapes. A miracle.

Yesterday, an extremely talented friend, Victoria Greenley, taught us how to cook some amazing dishes at her wonderful flat in Chelsea. It is on the top floor, and has uninterrupted views north and south, so it was flooded with light – something you relish during the winter months. The clouds were pink at sunset, which is around 4pm now.

The wow factor came at the end. Somehow she had used two bowls, one large on the outside and inside one smaller, to freeze water in the cavity, which was full of red rose petals and viburnum. And then she placed a green fruit salad in it: magical. And beautiful.

Today, I shall recover from the shock of Domino’s antics.

 

 

Today is wet and cold again. Winter, now, has a firm grip on the weather.

Last night, we went to the Canadian High Commission in Trafalgar Square for the UK launch of She Has a Name [#shehasaname) – a drama/thriller film highlighting the crime of human trafficking, and more specifically, international sex trafficking of children – ten million trafficked children are involved in the sex industry. The film will be launched on the 2nd December in London. The proceeds will be channelled back into tackling the problem.

Only one percent of children are rescued. You can’t get your head around that, can you?

My friend Donna Abraham, a co-producer of the film sponsored by Alberta, a province in Canada, passionately spoke of her hope that the film would put a large, glaring spotlight on the issue, and that British schools will use it to educate and motivate young students to act on what they learn. We then heard from two female field workers [A21 Campaign and Iris Cambodia], incredibly brave, who are on the ground rescuing minors from captivity.

There are more slaves today, than at the time when William Wilberforce was petitioning for the abolition of slavery.

It was sobering stuff, to say the least.

Yesterday, Donald Trump was declared President of the United States of America. It is a terrible thing to admit to, but as I watched the live television coverage, I couldn’t help but think, “Why does he use fake tan that makes his face orange?” There is going to be an orange president in the Oval Office.

In my first summer as a Chelsea resident, the weather at the end of the school year turned unseasonably warm: stinking hot. It was sports day the next day, and I had bought a pretty dress to wear. I was class representative for the PTA (Parents and Teachers Association), and I wanted to make Anna proud.

My legs were lily white. I resorted to fake tan. I applied liberal amounts to my legs, and then I took Hugo to see the new Star Wars film. In the two hours I sat in the dark theatre, pretty bored, my legs turned a bright shade of orange. My eyes almost popped out of my head when I saw the results of my experiment to gain an instant tan.

The next day, the dress stayed in the closet, and I wore trousers in the boiling heat. It took three weeks for the deep orange to fade.

Wet and miserable today. And ground breaking history wasn’t made yesterday; America does not have a female president. I wonder how Theresa May will get on with Donald Trump? Will it be Thatcher and Reagan revisited?

Last night I heard crashing around upstairs. It was Anna at 4am tuning into the news. I went to investigate. She informed me that Trump was winning, by a lot. As someone who has studied Classics – the study of the culture, history and philosophy of Ancient Greece and Rome in the original Greek and Latin language, considered to be the origin of the civilisation and democracy that we enjoy in the West – I respect her opinion when she declared, “This could mean the end of democracy.”

Obviously, the election result was reached by a democratic process; every American could vote. But I think she was pointing to a bigger idea, that the voices of the minorities may not be heard in the forseeable future. We all hope this is not the case, don’t we?!

BBC Radio 4 has recently broadcast four lectures, the Reith Lectures, given by the philosopher and cultural theorist Kwane Anthony Appiah; they are brilliant; he is brilliant: on culture, colour, country and creed. When he was once asked what country he originated from, he replied that he was a citizen of the world. He argues that the ‘them’ and ‘us’ mentality is potently dangerous. He celebrates cosmopolitanism; that we should aim for “universality plus difference”; we should share together what is human and respect the differences. For example, obviously a man cannot be a woman and vice a versa, but they share humanity. That is paramount.

The lectures are timely given the polarisation of tribes and groups, nations and races, we are seeing at the moment.

On a lighter note, the baby shower went well yesterday. The guests were pheasants. I was going to do a modern take on tea, with gluten free fare and organic vegetable things, but opted instead for egg sandwiches on white bread with crusts removed; scones with clotted cream and jam and carrot cake. The pheasants were delighted and ate it all. Clearly, pheasants, when push comes to shove, prefer the food of their childhood.

And, of course, the important subject was raised as to whether the clotted cream or jam should be applied to the scone first. The pheasants informed me that there has been longstanding war between Cornwall, who opt for jam first, and Devon, who opt for cream first, as to who is right.

Today, we are going to the Canadian High Commission for the launch of a film, She has a Name, highlighting the problem of international human trafficking.

 

 

 

 

 

I awoke to ice crystals, sparkling in the morning sun, beyond my bedroom curtains, this morning in Hampshire; a heavy frost lay on the landscape, like Narnia, the magical world created by C.S. Lewis in the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Yesterday, it was a clouldess day, so I cleared the drive of the Autumn leaves. I could not believe my eyes when, across the road, in the field by the pub, a huge hot air balloon, completely out of context, descended from the heavens. It was very close and very overpowering. Domino was barking like mad at it. I went and had a look. I think they had to make an emergency landing.

Many moons ago, while I was at University, I had a boyfriend who was a pilot. His name was Peter, and Mum used to call him, ‘Peter the Pilot’. After we parted ways, he landed a job flying internationally for Qantas, but back when he was with me, he was a flying instructor. He always wore aviator sunglasses, whether on or off duy. His identity was totally immersed in being a pilot. He wore khakis, shirt and trousers, whether he was at work or off work.

He had the bright idea that he could get hold of a plane, borrow one, and fly up to the Whitsundays to Great Keppel Island. Some other friends were keen to join us. So on the appointed day, we arrived at the airport full of private planes. I had packed a couple of pairs of shorts, t-shirts and bikinis. It was boiling hot in Queensland in the summer.

The four seater plane was a rust bucket, and it looked liked it had sat there unused for centuries. Paint was peeling off the bodywork. The wings looked like they were going to fall off. Cobwebs and dust covered it. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find rubber bands holding the wheels on. I asked Peter if it was safe to fly. He said, “I’ll see. I’ll test it.” He had never flown the plane before.

So he jumped in the cockpit and turned the engine on. Splutter, clunk, splutter, clunk; finally, the engine burst into action. He pumped some juice through the accelerator, and he looked up with a smile and gave the thumbs up. “Good to go,” he declared. After that, I never doubted for a moment that the aircraft was airworthy. Looking back, I wonder if I was bonkers to get in that plane. I was very lucky – I possibly lacked judgment when I was smitten!

We flew up the coast of Australia. It was like being in the film Out of Africa. With windows encasing you, you had a 180 degree uninterrupted view. It was majestic. However, at one point we flew into a thunderstorm. It was terrifying, and we did, indeed, have to descend and land on a deserted airstrip in the middle of nowhere in Queensland. It was at night, so we had to sleep in the plane. It was one of the worst night’s sleep I’ve ever had, but the next morning, the sun was shining, and there was the hope of a new day. By lunchtime, we were touching down in paradise, on the island in the lower Barrier Reef.

Today, I am hosting a baby shower in London. Noone knows if the mother is expecting a girl or a boy. Whatever the outcome, the mother’s life before baby – BB – is over. Forever after baby, AB, there is another human being to consider, until they are independent, and even then, you never stop caring.

Today, it is the American presidential election. What will be the sex of the next American President? Incredible to think that a female may be in charge of the nation; we are, possibly, on the brink of ground-breaking history again.

 

 

 

Today, it is very cold and wet. The temperature has plummeted. This Autumn it has been relatively dry, with lots of sunshine.

Yesterday, as part of the committee, I attended the Marie Curie charity lunch at the Four Seasons Hotel in Mayfair, just beyond the east end of Hyde Park. It was in aid of its hospice, for the terminally ill, in Hampstead, and remarkably almost £100,000 was raised. The charity also organises home care before hospice care is needed.

It is a cause close to my heart, as Dad, Stan the Man, succumbed to cancer towards the end of 2008, dying in January 2010. We had seen him previously at Easter, when he was fit and healthy. Ironically, he was a on a health kick, walking extensively and losing weight. It is a shock when someone you love is diagnosed. Every situation is different, but it it extremely painful.

Our trip, the Easter before his diagnosis, was one of our happiest holidays in Oz: halcyon days. Geoff had his 55th birthday. Dad was on fine form, and that is how I like to remember him. I recall after a long, happy day at the beach, suggesting that Geoff take the children home, and that Dad and I walk home along the coast path together, three beaches in all. We were rarely alone, and I’d never thought of it before. I took a photo of him with one of my favourite beaches behind him. We found a small baby shark dead on the beach. The sun was warm and the sea was sparkling. He hated smiling in photos, but I begged him to grin, and he flashed a Stan the Man smile.

Dad was an integral part of the fabric of our time in Oz. He was always present at the beach with us. Looking after the children, in and out of the sea, cooking hotdogs on his portable barbecue, helping me carry the chairs to the beach, packing up when we were tired, buying ice creams for the children, cheering me on when I went for a swim, chatting and grinning.

It was hard when his part of the jigsaw disappeared from the terrain. He left a hole, and the sun never seemed as warm, the sky as blue, the sea as azure, as when Dad was alive. His passing took a little of the colour out of Australia for me: like a photo fading.

Today, I have to take Domino for a long country walk as he was in London a lot last week and on his lead.

We were up in London again last night, a Sunday, for the first screening in the UK of a brilliant new film, Man Down, at BAFTA house in Picadilly. One of our friends is an executive producer. It is unmissable. It will be in the cinemas in a few weeks.

 

It is clear morning. Often, in Autumn and Winter, the mornings arrive with blue skies at dawn, but by 11am the clouds have arrived.

It was a shock to come home from Italy, to find rust, red, orange and golden leaves carpeting the drive, and the remainder adorning the trees. They were dark green when we left. It is the glorious time before the leaves disintegrate and deteriorate into brown slush, marking the worst of the winter months.

Yesterday, I went to a baby shower dinner in Chelsea, for a friend’s daughter who is due soon.

That night I had another vivid dream. Our dog Domino can sing. Not very well, but he can follow a tune. He sings the Hallelujah chorus. We often wheel him out after a dinner party to perform.

But in the dream, he was sitting on the sofa and looking at me, and he said, “Hello Mummy.” I was incredulous. I said to Geoff, who was reading the paper in the dream, “Did you hear that? He said ‘Mummy’.” We were amazed. The next day, still in the dream, we were feeding Domino in a high chair like a baby, and to our complete amazement, he started to speak fluently, like a young child.

Do you think I may be grieving having a full nest, now that we are empty nesters?

At the moment, a number of my friends are going through Uni applications with their children. It is the season of parental stress for them. And it is the topic of conversation if they are.

It was a relief to past that stage and to know that the children had secure places at Uni, but it was also a watershed moment, for us as parents, when they graduated. A rite of passage for us all.

Hugo’s graduation from Harrow School – only one of four boys’ full boarding schools in the UK – was particularly stellar. Every year, we would troop up on Speech Day, to the school on the Hill, in time for the Bill. This is when the Headmaster, in mortar board and black academic gown, calls out each boy’s name as they parade past. As they go by, they tip their boater and bark, “Yes sir.” The prefects, in top hats, form a guard of honour as they process past.

In the final year, we had a sumptuous lunch organised by the head of house, The Park, one of the twelve boarding houses, and since he was a Jordanian prince, it was very grand indeed.

The boys had slept every night in The Park, from the age of thirteen to eighteen. They arrived as boys and left as men. It was moving to see them line up for photos. Whether they were friends or not, they had weathered five years together under the same roof. A fair amount of champagne and beer was swilled that day.

We also went to a leavers’ dinner. The dinner was in the school cafeteria, where the boys take all their meals from breakfast to dinner. It was just like any other dinner, except the boys were in their Sunday tails, and the food was slightly better, and we were scattered around amongst them.

It was a birdseye view of their daily life. It made me sad that I had missed so much of Hugo’s life in the past five years. He had eaten countless meals here amongst Harrovians and beaks, the name for teachers. Although I had missed him, I also realised that he was part of an amazing, privileged tradition: a long corridor of boys. Harrow School started in 1572. Eight former prime ministers, including Winston Churchill, have passed through, and of course, Benedict Cumberbatch, the actor.

Anna had only been at St Paul’s for two years when she graduated, but again, it was a momentous day. We knew by then she was headed for Cambridge.

Today, I have a Marie Curie fundraising event.