Today it is raining, again, in Edinburgh.

I am driving down to Ayrshire to see the Kennerleys. That means going west towards Glasgow, where we will catch a plane back down South on Saturday.

Stan and Bev, my parents, loved Scotland. When they visited us in 1991, we joined them on a tour of the Highlands, before visiting the Loire Valley in France. One thing both Scotland and France historically had in common, in architecture, was their love of the turret and tower. In Scotland this style is know as Scottish baronial. And both countries had strong links to the Papacy. Mary Queen of Scots (1542-1567) was raised in France and was Queen Consort of France for a blink of time, before returning home to Scotland the year after her husband’s death in 1561. Of course, down South in England her cousin Elizabeth I, who beheaded her for treason, was head of the Church of England founded by her father Henry VIII.

Stan the Man loved to drive. He loved to be at the wheel of either a car or a boat. This meant that driving holidays were just that: hours of driving with ‘wee’ time with your feet on terra firma. You had to eat your food and drink your drink at record speed at ‘pit stops’ in order to get back on the road again. Dad had a tight schedule to maintain and we managed to tour the whole of the Highlands in a weekend, including Lochness (no monster seen), the Isle of Skye (home of Richard Corrie’s clan on his maternal side – the Macleods) reached by ferry, Inverness (where Dad bought yet another clock to add to his collection), Balmoral (the Queen’s residence) and back down to Edinburgh.

I remember crossing over a high point in the Highlands and unexpectedly finding snow and skiers whizzing down slopes. Where there was no snow, the bleak landscape was, at times, covered in pinkish/lavender heather. It was a majestic, stirring and melancholic landscape. At times Scots are described as dour, meaning sullen and gloomy. This is unfair in my opinion. I think that Scots are stern, but living in that environment in ancient times must have been testing. And the men wore skirts, which made it doubly tough.

In years to come, we made it to Scotland on several occasions, apart from our visits to the Kennerleys. We had a very wet summer’s holiday in 1993. We stayed in two turreted mansions. The second one was on the West Coast in Kinloch Moidart. We rowed to a small island on the first day, picnicked and played cricket on the beach. The next day, the heavens opened and rain poured down incessantly for the next week. There were a lot of Scots there, but the Scots that were Geoff’s friends did not speak with Scottish accents. Sloane Scots speak the Queen’s English. Nicky St John was there, smitten with John, who proposed not long afterwards.

I can only say that despite the weather, the landscape is endearing and gets under your skin and the people are straightforward, friendly, good and true. Many of our friends, found through Geoff’s first Scottish friend, Emma, have stayed firm friends. We are godparents to some of their children and three out of six of our children’s godparents are Scottish. That says something.

Today is overcast and grey in Edinburgh, but no rain is forecast so I am going to get out and about soon.

I had a pleasant breakfast in the hotel. It was exactly the same as yesterday, except, there were waffles rather than pancakes. It will be the same tomorrow. All over the world, variations of the same breakfast, are being served in hotels.

It was the usual buffet: cooked breakfast (sausages, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried potatoes); continental (cold meat and cheeses); mueslis and cereals; breads and pastries, and fruit and yoghurt. There is something comforting about the sameness of the scene each morning. Day after day guests, from all over the world, partake of the same food. If alone we sit in silence studying our screens or reading a book. The only conversation is with the staff serving tea or coffee and asking whether you would like toast or not. But there is camaraderie in the event. It is a cosy aloneness.

Yesterday I walked the city and looked at the architecture. It is more austere and serious than the architecture of its pretty southern cousin, London. And the sandstone is covered in black soot, a product of years of domestic coal consumption. Weirdly it does not detract from the beauty of the buildings, but matches the steely skies, and Castle Rock, where the castle that dominates the skyline of the city is perched. It is hard to make out from a distance where the rock finishes and the manmade fortress begins. The effect is seamless. It is incredible to think that the castle has been a royal residence since the 12^th century.

In the evening I had a drink at the New Club, housed in a hideous grey building on Princes Street (reminiscent of the utilitarian architecture of Eastern Europe during the Cold War). However, there were ceiling to floor windows, framing spectacular views of the castle, making up for the terrible facade.

Apart from my tour on foot I, mostly, stayed in the hotel, reading and thinking. A break from the routine of home life, in a neutral environment, stimulates the mental juices, allowing one to analyse where one has been in life and where one wants to go.

I had a swim in the hotel pool. I was blissfully alone for a couple of hours, until a gentleman appeared at the top of the stairs. I was in a tiny Jacuzzi at that point and to my horror, yes, he headed straight towards me. As he lowered his hairy body into the gurgling water, I stood up and said, “Perfect timing. My twenty minutes are up.” He looked disappointed. A younger me may have suffered and made polite conversation with the stranger. The current me could not tolerate one second of sharing the same water with him. Off I trotted to the changing room.

So off I go to enjoy my last day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The weather in Edinburgh is grey, wet and cold this morning.

Last night dinner was in the hotel, The Caledonian, in the Galvin Brasserie, which is the more relaxed of the in-house restaurants. I had grilled lobster – delicious – and a good size. Not as huge as the ones you get in Oz, but not as small as the tiny one Dad was served in a Scottish restaurant 27 years ago.

My first visit to Scotland, with Geoffrey, was in 1989, so getting on to 30 years ago. My friend Ghislaine invited me to stay at her brother’s house in Ayrshire. I previously told you that her brother is a baron, inheriting the title at a young age from his grandfather in 1985. He served as a Conservative politician in the House of Lords for many years and eventually reached the top job, Leader of the House. But back then he was just a young baron starting out in politics. And a bachelor with a girlfriend, now his wife.

I didn’t know what to expect at all. I was not prepared for the sight of the family house. To me it looked like a palace. There was an impressive bridge spanning the River Ayr that led to the sweeping driveway. I felt like a character in a Jane Austen novel. I wasn’t just Joe Public on a paid tour. I was a guest! As it happened it was a relaxed weekend as the houseparty was “young”. The Kangaroo didn’t cause any damage. So we cooked and went for walks. Played tennis. Sat on the grass in the sunshine. There was no staff. Ghislaine pulled things out of the freezer to warm up for meals. I do, however, remember sitting in my ancient bedroom and looking out onto the courtyard behind the house, with stables and cobblestones. I imagined bygone times when, in the absence of cars, carriages would have brought privileged guests for grand dinners.

I only made it to Edinburgh for a stay about 10 years ago (I flew here in 1990 to do a Highlands tour with my parents, but did not linger). Ghislaine was living here then with her husband, Peter, in a top floor flat with views to the coastline of Fife. Peter was working for Scottish & Newcastle, a brewing company. They spent their weekends in their own house in Ayrshire. We did some of the sights together. The castle overseeing the city from its great rock; contemporary art at The Royal Scottish Academy of Art and Architecture – worth visiting; Holyrood Palace – the Queen’s residence; Princes Street (the premier street) and the Old Town. I made it back a couple of years ago to the Edinburgh Festival, with Geoffrey and Hugo. Ghislaine’s son was performing with the Durham Review – a brilliant production of short skits – 3 men and 3 women.

So today I will have a wander and reacquaint myself with this ancient city.

I am typing this on a plane to Edinburgh, Scotland, before heading to Ayrshire later in the week. I have just dropped my Italian greyhound, Domino, at the Whippet Hotel near Gatwick. It is essentially a cottage, but a hotel nonetheless in terms of pampering and comfort. Domino is our first family dog. As Hugo went off to university Domino moved in. I resisted getting a dog for years as the Potts family are suckers for animals. It comes from Bev, my mother. We grow insanely attached to them.

The weather is pleasant today. It is my birthday. I am 54 years old and I am a zillion miles away from the place of my birth, the great land of Australia. I feel old and young all together. Some days it feels like I have lived a long life, full of memories and the weight of time, like a heavy load. Like the bundle the Jolly Swagman in Waltzing Matilda carries on his back come rain or shine. Other days I feel as light as a feather – as if I am a skip away from the young girl running around barefoot and free in Sydney.

Skipping reminds me of Skipper my first dog. He was an Australian kelpie – a Queensland cattle dog. If I was running he was always behind me. He was my best friend apart from Anne Collins. From the age of 5 to 18, I walked roughly the same route from home to school and back: Monday to Friday. Until Skipper died in my early teens he waited for me to come home from school – at the top of the hill in Laycock Street where I lived. He was stationary like a statue until he saw me, and then he bolted like lightning over cane fields, running around me in circles.

Skipper loved the Potts family best. They say that dogs look like their owners and Skipper looked like Stan the Man, my Dad. But Skipper was not exclusive. He would roam the streets of Bexley North when I was at school. Wherever I went on my bike with him running alongside me truckloads of people would yell out, “G’day Skipper.” I think he had other families, but we were his main family. He was a beaut dog – a one in a million.

Sometimes he would embarrass me and come into shops, start eating the food below counter level and I would pretend he wasn’t mine. He would look at me with a confused look as if to say, “You know me, don’t you? I belong to you.”

He was also a bit of a Romeo. He would find stray bitches and bring them to the back door and bark. We always said the same thing. “Skipper, not again, she’s a shocker”. He seemed disappointed with our verdict, but he would take her back to his kennel anyway.

I had other dogs that I loved, Ben, Scruffy, Sally, but I loved Skipper the best, that is,until Domino entered our lives 18 months ago. He’s my little mate. He’s besotted with me and loves me no matter what. Whether I am having a bad hair day or not.

More from Edinburgh.

 

On Friday at the Hurlingham Club there was an important golf croquet match, the Ramsis Cup, the Egyptians playing a group of the worldwide best (The Rest of the World), apart from them of course. Mrs Croquet was on hand to try to explain the rules to me. Sadly lost on me. Needless to say it is sport involving hitting coloured balls with a mallet through hoops on a grass court.

Reg Bamford, reputed to be the best player in the world (currently no. 1 in WCF Golf Croquet), admired Domino, my Italian greyhound. I was standing beside the court and he turned from the boundary to make the comment. As far as I am concerned Domino is the world’s most beautiful Italian greyhound. A tad overweight, but so was Reg.

Mrs Croquet pointed out that the British Empire took croquet to Egypt. And even after the Suez Canal crisis and the end of British occupation in 1956, the land of the pyramids continued to hit balls through hoops. And they do so very well. The impact of the British Empire may be controversial, but surely bringing sports, like cricket and croquet, to countries is a good thing.

Most of the weekend was taken up with a stellar 50^th birthday party in West Sussex, at the beautiful home of, code name, Mr and Mrs America. There is another American couple, code name Mr and Mrs California, who also throw the best parties imaginable. Now that they have relocated back to Los Angeles, they are harder to attend. Both hubbies are derivatives traders owning their own banks.

The theme for the Saturday night bash was Vintage Hollywood Glamour. The caterers Rhubarb were behind the scenes producing mouth-watering food. Canapés and pink champagne on the terrace. In a marquee – sea food on shoulder high silver platters, followed by lamb for main course and pudding served on an art deco style silver bar by the dance floor.  In the centre of the room was a glass like pond. They had built the marquee around a real lily pond. After the speeches, just when you didn’t think it would get any better, the curtains opened behind the dance floor to reveal a swing band. In the Mood kicked off the dancing. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I turned to find the ex-principal for the Royal Ballet, Darcy Bussell, dancing with her husband beside me.

It was a great night, followed by brunch the next morning. Some had stayed up to 4am dancing. Someone jumped in the pond. Inevitable!

The next evening I sat down to watch a DVD of Mr and Mrs America’s 20^th anniversary party in Venice, in January 2010, which we were lucky enough to attend. Thirty couples, for two nights, at the Gritti Palace on the Grand Canal. Water taxis in, guided tours the next morning, lunch at the Danielli with Canaletto views from the roof top, and leading up to the main event on the Saturday night. The women were presented with heavy velvet capes and decorative masks. The men with pointed black hats and ghostly masks (bautas, covering the whole face). Gondolas glided us down the canal to a magnificent palazzo and we had the meal of a life time, opera performances and dancing to the wee hours. This is the stuff of dreams and Mr and Mrs America and Mr and Mrs California have treated us to slices of heaven.

Back to reality this morning. I have a lot of housework.

 

 

It was very hot yesterday. Even Domino was panting and exhausted after his run around Hurlingham Park, the public park at the end of the road. You can let him off the lead. At the Hurlingham Club, however, he must be on a lead at all times.

Yesterday I had tea at Carlucccio’s, Chelsea, to go over details for the Older Persons’ Concert in June at St Paul’s Onslow Square, South Kensington (details on HTB website). The event coincides with the Queen’s 90^th birthday celebrations. We are going to do something special to mark the occasion, with Union Jacks and cake decorations to match. For Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee, Camilla (Duchess of Cornwall), married to Charles (Prince of Wales), came for tea. She was charming. And although I am a diehard Diana fan, I couldn’t help but like her.

When Camilla turned up in her escorted Range Rover, I stood last at the end of the short receiving line waiting for her outside the church. The vicar of HTB, The Rev. Nicky Gumbel, was first to say hello with his wife Pippa, and when she reached me as the least important, she inquired,“So what’s your role in all this?” I quipped, pointing to Fi Costa who is the musical director, “I help her!” She laughed. She is a jolly person. The guests adored her. The same guests who, if polled the day before, may have voted no to her being Queen with Charles, due to loyalty to Diana.  Audrey, one of our regular Chelsea Pensioners from the Royal Hospital, was on television on the day of the Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant, the flotilla down the Thames on 3 June 2012. She could be seen chatting to Prince Harry as he made his way onto the royal barge. It was a dismal and wet day for the boat parade. But the sun shone when Camilla visited us. She did not, however, replace Diana in my affections by the end of the tea.

I had two encounters related to Diana. The first was Christmas 1989. I had been working late at Barlow, Lyde and Gilbert to make deadlines, as Geoffrey and I were leaving the next day to go to Oz. As I made my way to the underground, it was hard to see ahead as there was a soupy fog. I had reached the corner near Bank and out of the fog came a cavalcade of policeman on motorbikes, blue lights flashing. I could see a royal car in the middle, so I bent down to get a good look in as the car turned the corner. It was Diana. All by herself, dressed in an evening gown and tiara. She was breathtakingly beautiful. She must have seen me and told the chauffeur to slow down to a snail’s pace. I waved madly to her and she waved back with a dazzling smile.

The second encounter was with her mother, Francis Shand Kydd. It was after Diana had died. It was the time when Peter Jones in Sloane Square was being renovated, so they had outsourced part of the store to their warehouse at Brompton Cross, near the Conran store. There was a complimentary shuttle bus between what became known as PJ1 and PJ2. I had parked my car near the bustop at PJ2 and I recognized Diana’s mother from reading too many trashy celeb magazines. She was on a walking stick and looked frail. She was agitated that the bus was taking too long to come. I walked a few steps over to her and offered her a lift. Without hesitation she accepted. I helped buckle her in. At first she wanted me to take her home, but then changed her mind and asked to be taken to PJ1 in Sloane Square. Maybe she thought I would send the paparazzi. Off we went on our short journey. She made two comments that I will always remember: that she would never shop at Harrods (that was the elephant in the room) and that she didn’t like Peter Jones since they stopped allowing dogs in. A true Sloane loves their dogs more than anything. To think that the Queen has hundreds of staff, but feeds the corgis herself. She offered to give me petrol money. She said that I had a lovely car. I looked around at the empty juice and crisps packets left by my children. She was being polite.

Today I’ll head back to the Old Rectory.

 

 

 

Weather today is sunny and warm.

Last night was a jolly evening with Richard and Louise Corrie in the Harness Room at the Hurlingham Club. The Corrie trademark laugh was to the fore. I had a rib eye steak. Usually do when I eat there.

Richard is from a big clan, not quite as big as the Wilmot’s though. He is one of 5, rather than one of 7. Feeding and accommodating large numbers of offspring requires military style organization. Routines evolve to the point that chores are done automatically by family members without the need to ask them. The Corries’ Sunday lunch was a case in point. After a leisurely breakfast, with every conceivable newspaper on offer to read (remember Hugh was a libel lawyer for the Mirror Group), preparation for lunch began in earnest. The table was laid in the dining room, not the conservatory, where breakfast had been taken. The roast had been put in some time earlier. An assembly line around the island formed to work away at the vegetables and pudding preparation, usually a crumble. Louise was a firm fan of rhubarb crumble. At 1pm, we all sat down to a banquet, with claret usually.

The Wilmots also had their unique rituals, which in my experience were rigid. Breakfast was at 8.30am on the dot in the kitchen, apart from Christmas, when it was in the dining room. It was usually cold oats with milk and brown sugar and toast. The tea of choice was Lapsang Souchong, a particularly fragrant tea from China. At 11am there was Elevenses. This was a cup of instant coffee with a basic biscuit, maybe shortbread. Mutti and Pops worked on the Times Crossword. At 1pm precisely, lunch was served in the kitchen, unless it was a special occasion, when it was taken in the dining room. This was the main meal of the day. There was a first class butcher, Coldbreaths, in Seal, near Stone House, and they supplied the meat for the clan. On Sunday, this was a roast. On other days, it was their trademark sausages or Mutti made something called a groundnut stew. If the latter, there were little dishes of nuts, raisins and coconut to sprinkle on top. I don’t remember anything other than crumble being served, with fruit from the orchard (frozen off season) or choc-ices. After lunch, instant coffee was again served with one chocolate each, no more. You knew that was your quota.

At 4.20pm, tea was served in the drawing room, unless it was summer and served outdoors. A double decker tea trolley was wheeled in. This was religiously scones, cut into triangles, and made with whole meal flour. They were as hard as bricks. The spread was jam or marmite. There would also be a cake. At 7pm, a light supper was served again on a trolley in the drawing room. Mutti kept an ongoing soup pot on the AGA. She just boiled it up and kept adding to it. I wondered if it was ever finished and the pan was washed up. I am not sure. Celery and carrot sticks were placed vertically in glasses. Cheese and biscuits were also on offer.

As you can see, there were a lot of meals, of limited variety, to navigate. Because a lot of the veg and fruit were home grown, its fibre content produced digestive challenges for me, if you know what I mean.

The big bore, was that there was no dishwasher. Mutti and Pops believed that washing up produced community; i.e., you chatted during the process. It seemed to me that when everybody was in residence, that all we did was eating and washing up. But they were happy times.

Today I have a meeting for the next Older Person’s concert. We have the cellist Guy Johnston performing.

The weather today is hot, wet and humid, but better weather promised.

Last night I went to a dinner for all the Tuesday Hurlingham Tennis Ladies. And their other halves. There were eleven of us.

Code names: Mr and Mrs Jetset, Mr and Mrs Croquet, Mr and Mrs Fineart (returned from six months abroad), Mr and Mrs Napier (they live on the premier street next to the Hurlingham of the same name) and Ms Christies (where she works-the hostess).

Mr Napier was to my right at the head of the table. He was educated at Winchester and smart (high up in Sloane hierarchy). He was educated at Winchester, just like Geoffrey’s grandfather, Algernon, on Eve’s side. I have a photo of him, standing proudly in his school uniform, in the hall at the Old Rectory. Geoff’s father, Tony, was sent to Tonbridge, like his father and like Geoff.

The concept of boarding school was foreign to me and it was inconceivable that I would send my children to board. It is what many Sloanes do. Less now. Tony and Eve, nicknames Pops and Mutti (Geoffrey studied German), had seven children. Twins at the top and twins at the bottom and three in the middle. Tony and Eve lived abroad in Africa with a short stint in Singapore. Like many of their expat class, they sent their children home from the tender age of seven to boarding school. Later they would go on to public school (private not state). This cost shed loads of money, but not as much as it costs today, relatively speaking. And by all accounts, boarding schools back then were not, on the whole, that nurturing and cosy, shall I say. Caning was allowed. Bullying was viral.

At the top of the Wilmot sibling group, were fraternal twins, Jono (Jonathan) and Mim (Miriam). They were the grownups in the family. The other siblings looked up to them. They married and had children streets ahead of the rest of the pack. As a new Wilmot wife, I studied them carefully. I had to produce Wilmot offspring afterall.

Mim was the first to marry. Mim was beautiful, musical and clever. By temperament she was thoughtful, measured and kind. Rob was film star handsome, personable and brilliant (went to Rugby and Oxford). They started with Rebecca in 1978 (born on the same day as Anna 16 years earlier), followed by Bethany and Zoe followed with a gap. These girls were super children: academically gifted (Cambridge, Oxford and Durham); musically advanced and gorgeous in all respects. At Christmas they would perform recitals in Sound of Music type outfits, made by Mim. As a kangaroo, I was panicked I wouldn’t be able to produce offspring, even vaguely, in the same orbit as theses girls. Rob and Mim were teachers. The grand proportion of Rob’s adult life was at Harrow School, just beyond SW London. He was head of The Park, a boarding house and later registrar. So the girls grew up in a boarding school environment, but attended North London Collegiate. Mim taught there.

Jono married Sue next. Jono, as the vicar in the family, was warm, pastoral and inclusive. It was handy having him. He married siblings, christened offspring and offered advice in sticky times. Sue, his wife, is a dynamic, Cambridge graduate and they had two blonde haired boys, Tom and Mike, much later followed by Ciffey in the next tranche of grandchildren.

When Mutti and Pops died, Jono and Mim led the family in their absence. In the meantime, they held the bench high for the rest. I was in awe of them and loved them.

Today we have dinner with the Corries of Waterperry fame.

 

 

Weather yesterday was hot and humid. Rain forecast for today.

I had a glorious walk in the woods with Aussie Sheila Friend, Gill. Before we set out,we headed to a great pub, The Deer Hut, near Liphook. Sat in the garden and ate better than usual salads. We reminisced about the ‘good old days’ and training to be lawyers in the 80s.

That got me thinking back to my days with Justin Codrai at Barlow, Lyde and Gilbert. My second trip to the United States later in 1990, was a grand tour: New York, Charleston (South Carolina), San Diego (California) and finally back to Chicago (Illinois). By now I’d been working for Justin for a while and had become accustomed to his unorthodox, brilliant way of practising the law. He was completely secure, so he readily gave his team plenty of exposure to clients. And he treated us like equals, albeit with different roles. He didn’t hide us in back rooms.

One of the clients involved in the two pieces of litigation we were working on was the Claims Manager for Sturge (the lead syndicate which had taken the biggest slice of the insurance risk), Charles, a handsome man a bit older than me.  He went to the same school as Geoff in Kent, Tonbridge. As Charles was besotted with his wife, Susie, still is, it was possible to be mates. I also became firm friends with Greg, the brilliant assistant for the American law firm in Chicago, Peterson & Ross, running the litigation there. I had met his delightful wife Mary Beth, on the first trip and we hit it off immediately. For my thirtieth birthday we met up in Rome!

Justin and I stayed at the Four Seasons in New York. I had never stayed in a 5 star hotel. I felt like Cinderella at the ball. We managed to have a cup of coffee at the Plaza, walk through Central Park and make it to the top of the Empire State Building where we had our photo taken with King Kong. In Charleston we were treated to Southern charm. We had drinks at the local partner’s colonial house down on the waterfront ‘Battery’, where the artillery assembled their guns in the Civil War. He was something out of Gone with the Wind, a veritable Rhett Butler. He told us about Hurricane Hugo the year before, hitting town with winds above 100mph. Despite opening all the windows to the house to prevent the them from imploding, the hurricane still managed to beat the hell out of the house.

Tom and Greg from Peterson & Ross joined us and together we flew to San Diego to interview the main client, the retired Sturge Underwriter, Ralph Rokeby Johnson (pronounced Rayf not Ralf). He had debunked from Britain to alleviate his arthritis. Charles flew in from London. Ralph was a formidable man. He was known for being sexist and ignoring female insurance brokers. For some reason he took a shine to me and called me Roo – as in Kangaroo. I was the centre of attention when we were not working.

Ralph’s house was extraordinary. It was Spanish on the outside to comply with local regulations, but he had flown over English craftsman to transform the interior into the equivalent of Buckingham Palace: gilding, plasterwork, oil paintings of ancestors, chandeliers, wood panelling and marble floors. We had a tour on the first day when we broke for lunch. When we finally made it to the rose garden, he motioned for me to sit in the middle and the other men flanked me, apart from Justin who took the photo for posterity. At a large dinner he hosted, including us lawyers, I turned over my solid silver cutlery to find small mice on the underside.  His nickname was mouse. Extraordinary!

Justin had located a very powerful speed boat and took Charles and me out in heavy, large swell when we were off duty. He reasoned that the only way to ride the waves was to go as fast as possible and skim over the top of the waves at full speed. Charles was calm. I was terrified! Charles told me to stand and to take hold of the top of the seats on either side and take the impact of the waves in my legs. I could barely walk the next day. 

When the torture was over, we made our way to refuel and there was a gin palace adjacent to us, draped with Baywatch babes in skimpy bikinis. I tried to brush my hair but it was matted. My legs and ankles were sunburnt and swollen. Charles couldn’t help but ask, “Are your ankles always that fat?” I don’t have the slimmest ankles, but they were twice the size of normal. Agony. I had not put on any sunscreen. I had turned back into Cinderella. The spell was broken.

No need for sunscreen today as it is much cooler after the heat spell. Tonight we have dinner with the tennis contingent from Hurlingham at Lizzie’s house in Fulham. 

Today the weather has just cooled after a warm spell for early May.

On Friday I popped along to a handsome house, near to the Old Rectory, for a coffee morning and tennis in aid of the Charlie Waller Trust – mission to prevent depression in the young. I was late and, as I drove into the driveway, I noticed – to my anxiety – that all the women, except me, were already sitting on the terrace drinking coffee. I was last to arrive. There was a sign “carpark” pointing to a field on the left, so off I went to park. I needed to bolt ASAP to join the assembly.

There were two ways to bolt: the long way back through the carpark, but I noticed that there was a stile (a wooden platform so you can cross fencing) at the end of the garden leading straight up to the terrace. I didn’t think twice. After all I climbed fences all through my childhood. I ran, vaulted over the stile, legs in the air and came in to land. When I righted myself and faced the terrace, I was horrified that the ladies, major country pheasants, had turned to stare at me, coffee cups frozen in their hands. It took a good two minutes to reach them. One of them in a cut glass accent said, “Impressive entrance.” The Kangaroo was back in action.

We had a wonderful evening at Flamenco’s in Chelsea. The food, as ever, was stellar and as I said previously, Flamenco has a way of sniffing out the best new food outlets and restaurants in town. For dessert (pudding in Britain) we had delectable éclairs -Maitre Choux – by Joakim Prat – Artist Patisssier. Each one an exquisite work of art.

Over the weekend, we also had a delightful wedding at St Dionys on Parsons Green. Two gorgeous Cambridge graduates (same college, same values, and same admission interview group) tied the knot on a bright sunny day. The bride, the daughter of Mr and Mrs Wonderful, looked radiant and blissfully happy. Unlike a lot of brides, she was utterly unselfconscious and completely herself. I am sure she didn’t consider checking her makeup once.

The Family Vicar, Jeremy, who also married Mr and Mrs Wonderful, officiated, so it was doubly touching. Jeremy is cut of unusual cloth – he is diminutive – a bachelor – went to Durham with Geoff – completely holy and completely fun. The sacred and amusing infect his speech.

I call the parents wonderful, because that is how Mrs Wonderful was described by the Family Vicar in a speech recently at her 50^th birthday bash. And I thought, bravo, dead right. The party was held at her mother’s pad in Tregunter Road, Chelsea, one of the best streets in the borough and we danced the night away to 80s disco.

Summer time is full of people making the most of the weather.

When we were first married, we spent the hours outside of work, relishing heat that would have melted the wax of Icarus’s wings (one of my fav stories in Greek mythology). That first summer of marriage and for a few after that, the summers were bonza. We sat in the sun at Stone House whenever we were there. And the weather lately has been like that. I hope it lasts.

Today I am catching up with Gill, my friend of almost 50 years from Sydney. She is driving to hang out with me in the country.