The weather today again is wintry. But apparently Summer is coming back soon. It has just gone on holiday to Europe.

Ah, but we are part of Europe in Britain – at the moment. Will the nation vote for Brexit, for Britain to leave the European Union or not? I have just found out that I can vote, being a Commonwealth citizen, resident in the UK.

Yesterday’s lunch with Flamenco and Mrs Vigo was all about Brexit. The discussion was informative and passionate. I need to really think long and hard about the issue before the 23rd June, the day of the vote. The issue is dividing family and friends.

I had a bad night’s sleep last night. I was thinking about something, that happened long ago, that made me unhappy. At last I fell asleep and I had a happy dream. So when I woke up, I felt better.

In the dream I was talking to my friend, Pippa, who is the wisest woman I know. I am hard pressed to think of any advice she has given me over the years, that didn’t equate to pearls of wisdom. In the dream she and I were sitting in a pretty garden. Ha, all the weeds were gone! She told me that her husband’s charity was carrying out an audit on all of their practises, in all departments. It was called the “Never Again” audit. They went through absolutely everything, and if it wasn’t working or wasn’t helpful, then it was thrown away. At the end of the “Never Again” audit, they were going to shut the door on all the worthless or unhelpful things. The penny dropped for me. I said, “That is like the last bit of C S Lewis’s book, The Last Battle.” Pippa smiled at me and said, “Exactly.” And then I woke up.

In The Last Battle, after many bloody battles, Aslan tells Peter to shut the door on Narnia for good and lock it with a golden key. The “good ones” make their way to a better world, a heavenly world, the “real England”. The Unicorn summed it up best when he said: “I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land that I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it til now.”

Isn’t this true of life too? I have a good memory. Probably due to my legal training. To retain events and information. But there are things that I need to shut the door on permanently. Not rake over them, again and again. So I have made a resolution to shut the door on the things that are weighing me down today!

Somewhere in dreamland, I also had a very quick dream. I was with one of my goddaughters. I have seven goddaughters and one godson, Nicky’s son, Harry. In the dream I gave her a scarf, that I never used anymore, that was worth a lot of money. She was thrilled. Maybe I am meant to go through my closet and give away what I don’t use anymore or don’t fit into.

It has been a huge honour for me, the Kangaroo, to be godmother to these budding pheasants and one stag. Anna is also godmother to Nicky’s daughter, Hannah.

Today Anne, from Bexley North, my Aussie Sheila friend of almost 50 years, is bringing her two lovely girls to visit me at the Old Rectory! So the house will be full of kangaroos.

I don’t want to talk about the weather anymore. It is depressing.
Yesterday Domino and I had a bracing walk on the Downs. When the clouds hem you in and you feel claustrophobic at ground level, you need to get up high, as if you were the sun looking down.

It helps raise the spirits. Even if you look a shocker afterwards. It does nothing for the beauty stakes.

When the weather is bad on the Downs, I end up looking as if I have been put through a washing machine – and then the tumble dryer to boot.

I have a friend Matilda. She would kill me if I wrote too much about her. She is 100% PRIVATE. But I talk to her every day. Sometimes we talk about important things, and sometimes it is as mundane as what we ate for breakfast or if we can face washing our hair.

Matilda once rang when I was on walking on the Downs. It was bright sunshine at the start and then a front came in from the Solent. Matilda was no doubt sitting comfortably, curled up on her velvet sofa, in her stylish flat in Chelsea – while I was being hailed upon, rained upon and then the sun finally shone again upon me. When I saw myself in the rear view mirror of the car, my hair had blown all to one side and was glued stiffly to my skull. Like a bald man’s comb over, the one where he grows one side of his hair long so that it can be glued across his bald patch with hair cream. A well- known shocker. What a contrast between the Sandra that left the Old Rectory and the one that returned home.

This reminded me of the time that I did a photo shoot with a group of women for the Christmas edition for Women and Home a few years ago. The idea was that they would recreate a well-known supermodel photo shoot, but substitute real women instead– LIKE ME. I parked the car in a local parking station, handing the keys over to the attendant. He barely glanced at me. I had no makeup on. My hair was messy. I looked tired.

After hours of pampering, including: inserting false eyelashes; having my hair and nails done; expert makeup applied; dressed in designer clothes and jewellery and frankly transformed, the photo shoot began. It was a lot of fun. When I went back to collect the car, back in my own clothes, but still with the hair and face made up, the parking attendant’s attitude had transformed too. From indifference to admiration.

I had to drop in to see Matilda on the way home and her son later commented, “Sandra’s very glamorous, isn’t she?” The truth is I am not, particularly, most of the time. Of course, I know how to look the part. But it takes time and effort, especially now that I am older. The truth is that the photo you see, that pops up at the top of the diary each day, was taken by the photographer, Lizzie, at the shoot. She took a few for me and gave them to me on a disc. As I am typing this I have no makeup on and my hair is in a pony-tail, as I am about to get windswept again walking Domino.

Today I am having lunch with Flamenco and another Spanish friend, Mrs Vigo, as she is from Vigo, the largest exporter of seafood in Spain (NE coast). We are at the Bluebird on Kings Road, Chelsea. They are always glamorous, so I will have to make an effort. Put on my glad rags.

Yesterday the weather continued to deteriorate until it was chucking it down. Today is gloomy, with dark skies, but it is forecast to be dry this morning. I will make myself go out with Domino for a walk on the South Downs. He was housebound too much yesterday and is bouncing off the walls.

Yesterday I decided to go to Woking to the wholesale nursery and buy a stack of peonies – pink and red. I want to fill all the holes in the garden and stop the weeds from growing back on the bare earth. I would rather look at peonies, than be on my hands and knees digging out weeds. Well I bit off more than I could chew. The peonies were out in the open yard, rather than in a glass house, and it was as if God, in the heavens, was emptying his kitchen sink on me. I was soaked by the time I loaded them in the car. And I don’t have a large car. It was quite a squash. While there, I couldn’t resist buying a few white iceberg roses.

The roses reminded me of Nicky St John’s wedding to John in Biggar, Scotland, in summer 1995, where her mother and father lived on a farm. You see it runs in the family. Nicky being a good ‘pheasant’ adores the countryside and all that goes with it – the sheep, chickens, crops and sheer scale of it all. John is a Yale Man. His father was a professor of economics at Yale. He wrote a bestselling economics book, the sort regular people read too. They are an American family, although his mother was Scottish!

The wedding was a happy and sad occasion for me. Nicky had been smitten with John for some time, but it was clear that at New Year 1994, turning into 1995, that he was going to pop the question. We were all at Castle Douglas, Scotland, staying with the Scotts; the castle burnt down long ago and is a ruin, but they have a big house and cottages, where the guests stay.

John had flown over from Santa Monica, California, where he lived, for the occasion. It was very predictable – why he was there! I was so delighted for Nicky. But gutted at the same time. John was going to export her back to the States with him. Another goodbye for me! I was sick of saying goodbye to the people I loved. When I saw her later at tea at the big house, she had a sapphire and diamond ring on her engagement finger, an heirloom from John’s mother.

The other couple that were staying were Chris and Shirley Tawney, also close friends of Nicky’s, and ours. Shirley only needed to look at Chris and she was pregnant. I remember playing on the floor of the cottage with Anna. Shirley walked in and in her direct way announced, “I think I am going to have another baby.” I remember thinking that, having a baby so easily, will never happen for me (remember I had a lot of trouble conceiving Anna). As it was, Hugo was conceived a couple of months later at the Great Barrier Reef. A blessing.

At the wedding both Shirley and I were not on top form as we were both pregnant. She had two boys already, Jack and Harry and Anna was just over a year old. Nicky insisted that they all be part of the wedding party, even Anna who couldn’t walk. I kept on saying, “Nicky she can’t walk. How is this going to work?” Nicky was adamant. Anna was like a niece to her.

The solution was that Nicky held her in all the photos. All of them – where the bridesmaids and pages were present.

How can I put this delicately? Nicky’s parents are extremely posh. They had waited for their eldest daughter to marry for some time and it needed to be perfect. A baby in the bride’s arms did not look quite right. I heard Nicky’s father mutter under his breath, “Could someone please remove that baby from Nicky’s arms. It looks like it’s hers.” Nicky found it very amusing. But Anna remained glued into Nicky’s arms for the duration.

Nicky did go and live in Santa Monica, but she didn’t like it too much. Pheasants prefer the British countryside. Not long afterwards, she was back.

Today I am going up to London.

The warm spell disappeared yesterday and dark, rainless clouds replaced the blue sky.
Yesterday was another day in the garden. The novelty has worn off. I am fed up with weeds. My mother in law, Eve, used to say that she found the process therapeutic. I can’t say that I do. But I like the end result. The roses are starting to bloom in their own garden, which is now weed-free in their honour. The hard work was worth it the end.
It was the same with having children for me. I was rubbish at having them – conceiving and carrying – but I baked nice ones in the end.

I was prescribed bed rest in the first trimester for both children, after I threatened to lose both of them at this critical stage.

In the case of Anna, I was at work when I realised that I was losing her. Geoff was abroad on business in Copenhagen, Denmark, and I was home alone. I rang my obstetrician and he said to go to Harley Street for a scan. I rang Nicky St John at Sothebys; she worked in the Bond Street store. She said she would leave work and meet me for the scan. I later found out she just walked out of the office when she hung up. Then I told my boss in one breath that I was having a baby and may be losing a baby. I was distraught. I then jumped in a black cab.

It was my turn to go into the room where I would find out if I was still pregnant. I lay on the examination table with my heart beating out of my chest. Nicky was holding my hand as the radiographer looked to see if my baby was still viable. After a few seconds she said, “I can see a heartbeat.” Nicky burst out crying and squeezed my hand. She is Anna’s godmother.

Same thing happened with Hugo. I had to tell my boss the same tale. Had to go through the same ordeal of the scan.

When I was eight months pregnant with him we moved to a much larger house in the Abbeville Village, Clapham. (It was where my love for interior design blossomed – more on that later.) I unpacked the kitchen on the first day and, whoosh, my waters broke. Off to St Thomas’s hospital where Mr Ferguson, my consultant, was ready to carry out an emergency caesarean. Both children were breech. Anna was 9lbs 3ozs and I am a slip of a woman!!!

I was taken straight to theatre. Mr Ferguson was all kitted up, with his wellies on! There was a paediatric team ready to go once Hugo was born, in case of problems. (I knew I was having a boy from the scan.) Mr Ferguson explained that when a baby is born at eight months, the lungs can be compromised. Geoff made it just as the epidural was being inserted, with minutes to spare. I shall never forget the look of complete delight on Mr Ferguson’s face when he pulled Hugo out of my tummy. His words: “Nothing to worry about. He’s fully cooked.” He was over 8lbs at 8 months. The tension in the room broke and there were congratulations all around.

I now had two children – healthy and safe – plus a lovely new home. The house needed a lot of work. The roof was leaking and there was damp in places. Some of the windows were rotten. But it had a wonderful bone structure. I was young and energetic. I was up to the challenge.

 

Today I am still at the Old Rectory.

Friday was sunny again. We are having a bonza summer. So welcome. They have been underwhelming for as long as I can remember.

This was not the case, however, for many years after we married. I have a theory. If is hot in May, then it will be a good summer. If it is still tepid in June, it remains tepid.

After gardening for the morning on Friday, I downed tools and went for a swim. Such a luxury! There is nothing nicer than being covered in sweat from exertion, whether gardening or tennis or whatever, and then cooling off. Like a snake shedding skin, you feel that you have lost a layer after being submerged.

I hardly saw water for the first five years of marriage. I was parched. We sometimes went abroad to the sea, but that was it. I was landlocked. A fish out of water.
Once married, it took 7 years until our membership of the Hurlingham Club finally came through, and I had access to water again in the form of the outdoor pool.(The waiting list for Hurlingham is now closed. It is so popular.) By then, Anna and Hugo, very small, were around.

Before that, I was head down in the City working as a solicitor. Just short of a year, I left Barlow, Lyde & Gilbert, as I had a sixth sense that Justin, my boss, may be leaving too. I was right. I went to the ‘other’ boutique insurance firm, Clyde & Co.
When Anna was born, I continued to work four days a week. It was agony handing her over to her Scottish nanny, Yvonne, and heading off. But it was softened by the fact that Emma had also gone back to work for 3 days a week. Yvonne also looked after Issie, who had been conceived at the same time as Anna. Two little blonde, chubby, cherubs together in a double pram, like twins.

Since I had trouble conceiving Anna, I didn’t hang around trying for another. Geoff and I went to Australia to introduce Anna to the relos when she was 14 months. Dad had not met Anna, nor Shaun and Wendy. Mum had flown over to lend a hand in the dead of winter, February 1994, just after she was born. Off we headed to the Great Barrier Reef. A dream come true for me.

 

I shall never forget flying past Cairns and seeing the reef from the window of the plane. It was as if God had strewn opals periodically in the perfect, blue sea.

When Dad clapped eyes on Anna, it was love at first sight for him. Anna woke at 6am. As soon as she was fed, Dad would be there like lightning to take her off for a walk. She was a trooper. She came out to the reef with us. The world below the waterline on the reef was just like the film Finding Nemo, a Bollywood kaleidoscope: of topaz, rose, mustard, emerald, all in neon colour.

It was here that I conceived Hugo. He is an Aussie boy!

Tomorrow it is Bank Holiday Monday and more gardening.

I am back at the Old Rectory. The sun is out! But I can see that it has rained overnight. Phew. As watering the whole garden by hand, by hose, is a big job and I always miss bits.

Yesterday I went for a ladies charity lunch at Steep, which is a stone’s throw from the Old Rectory. The hostess was someone I occasionally play tennis with. She is a very nice pheasant. Her house is idyllic – Georgian – like a doll’s house – with arched, gothic windows, and lilac wisteria growing over the garden door leading down to the terrace. I parked the car on the immaculate lawn, and made my way up to the front door. Drinks were in the hall, large and square. The ladies were older than me and high octane pheasants. I felt that old feeling of being shut outside of the paddock enclosure, with them all milling around inside it.

I was introduced to various pheasants. But all during the event, I had the same sort of conversation. It went like this.

Question: Do you have children?

Me: Yes, two. Anna, 22. Hugo, 20. Ranking stable. Only two children, but at least one of each.

Question: Are they at University?

Me: Yes. Anna graduated from Cambridge last year. Ranking goes up. Hugo is studying chemistry at Warwick. Ranking stable.

Question: Where do you live?

Me: We just moved into an old rectory nearby. Ranking goes up. But we spend some of our time in London. Ranking goes down as we are part timers.

Question: How long have you lived there?

Me: Two years. Ranking goes down as I am new to the country.

Question: Do you play golf?

Me: No. Ranking goes down.

Question: Do you ski?

Me: No, not anymore as I did my ACL (ligament in knee) a few years back. Ranking stable as at least I did ski – once.

Question: And sailing? (We are not far from big sailing waters.)

Answer: No. Ranking goes down.

Question: You’re foreign. Australia or New Zealand?

Me: Australia. Ranking remains stable as at least I am from the Commonwealth.

Maybe this would happen in any new terrain you enter, but it felt prickly. Icky.

The food, however, was delicious and plentiful and the sun shone and I was in a gorgeous location. Can’t complain. I am lucky.

Today lots of gardening as the garden grows as you watch it.

Today was overcast and cold. It was a pity as Mrs Wonderful and I went for a walk on Putney Heath. It was as if we were walking in the country. Wild flowers were growing in the long grass. Domino went troppo (Aussie word for crazy), running around in circles and chasing Willow, Mrs Wonderful’s dog.

Mrs Wonderful showed me the trailer for the wedding video of her daughter’s, and now son and law’s, wedding, which we attended a few weeks’ ago. It was magical. I teased her that before long she’d be a grandmother.

This got me thinking about the conception of my own children. I had always wanted to be a mother. I assumed it would happen without mishap. In the first years of marriage I was far too preoccupied with my career to consider the prospect. I made the decision that we would start a family when I turned thirty. I put the idea on a shelf until that date.

My thirtieth birthday arrived. I was in Rome with Geoff and our friends Greg and Marybeth Hopp. Greg was the hotshot lawyer who worked for the Chicago law firm Justin Codrai, my boss, had engaged to work on behalf of our London clients. At midnight I stepped into the Trevi fountain and kissed Geoff as I slipped into a new decade. It was time to have little Wilmots.

But it didn’t happen. At first I wasn’t concerned. The doctor said it often took time. As the months rolled on, I became slightly hysterical. Then Geoff turned 40. We had a party at Stone House to mark the occasion. Now the pressure of time felt like it was bearing down on us both. At one lunch with his parents at Stone House, I overheard an African guest say to Tony, my father in law, “Why does Geoff not have children, for he is old?” Family is everything to Africans, being the equivalent to status and wealth. I felt gutted. And a failure.

Around this time Geoff and I met a lovely couple, Jim and Emma, and they were also planning to start a family. We became firm friends. We often saw them at church. Just after my 31^st birthday in May 1993, I was due to meet Emma for lunch in the City, as she was a banker. I had found out that morning (at work where I did the test in the Ladies) that I was I was going to be a mother! I was euphoric, but I was dreading telling Emma. After eating our sandwiches in a pretty churchyard off Eastcheap, Emma said, “I have something to tell you. I’m pregnant. I hope you are not upset.” I replied, with a huge grin, “I am too.”

Nine months later, Emma gave birth to Isabella, and shortly after, I gave birth to Anna. Two little chubby, blonde angels. They were both worth waiting for.

Today I have a charity lunch at Steep, near where my country tennis club is.

 

 

The weather today is cloudy, but it is still warm. Summer has not left us.

Yesterday was a perfect day. A blue sky with white, fluffy, lamb clouds. I played tennis with some pheasants at Hurlingham in the morning and then took Domino for a long walk.

At this time of year the daffodils and blue bells have perished, giving way to summer blooms. The gardens at the Hurlingham Club look glorious. The lilac is out – full throttle. The cherry blossom, with its pink candyfloss flowers, is starting to shed like confetti.

In the afternoon I had to go and collect a blind from Battersea and deliver it to a friend in Chelsea; I did a small interior design job for her 10 years ago. The quickest way was over Chelsea Bridge and past the Royal Hospital. Because this is the week of the Royal Horticultural Society (RHS) Flower Show at the Royal Hospital, there was heavy traffic. I didn’t mind. It was lovely to see all the punters leaving the grounds after a day filled with gardens and blooms, dressed in linen suits and summer dresses.

The Royal Hospital is a 66-acre retirement and nursing home for approximately 300 retired British soldiers, non-officer class, who are without spouses or family. It is nestled between the Thames and the Royal Hospital Road. It is no ordinary nursing home; it is architecturally stunning. Sir Christopher Wren designed the Chapel and Great Hall, where the pensioners eat. When they wander around Chelsea, they are decked out in splendid scarlet coats. The Royal Hospital is to Chelsea what the Sydney Opera House is to Sydney. A great landmark. When I finally hit the shops at Sloane Square, many of them had spectacular floral window displays – showing off the British spirit.

Geoff and I were regularly asked to the first night of the show when he was CEO of Centaur Media. The ‘great and the good’ rubbed shoulders at this event – drinking champagne and nibbling canapés – but mainly networking. On one occasion we walked past Margaret Thatcher, long after she had resigned as Prime Minister in November 1990. It was well known that she was suffering from dementia by this stage. Nevertheless, the crowds stopped in their tracks to watch her pass. She was regal and dignified, and commanded the same sort of respect as the Queen.

RHS Chelsea Flower Show is considered to be part of The Season. Historically the Season, from the 17^th to 19^th century, was several months of the year (around when parliament was sitting) when landowning aristocrats came to London to socialise and engage in politics. Young women, debutantes, were presented to the Queen at Court and ‘came out’. Until then, they could not formally attend adult events! The Queen abolished the practice in 1958.  Now the Season is summer festivities dominated by Sloanes, but not exclusively. Off the top of my head, the Season includes: the Oxford/Cambridge Boat race; the Chelsea Flower Show; Polo in the Park (which is in the park of our London house); Royal Ascot; the Tennis Classic at the Hurlingham Club, Cartier polo at Windsor; Wimbledon; Henley Royal Regatta and the Goodwood Festival.

Today I am taking Domino on a new walk on Putney Heath with Mrs Wonderful.

Yesterday the weather was warm and with sunny spells.

Nicky and I set out on an adventure. Her mission was to show me that Dorset – the next county east of Hampshire – had some wonderful beaches – perhaps not surf beaches – but wonderful nevertheless. We put Domino and Tilda, her springer spaniel, in the boot, and off we set.

The first stop was Sandbanks spit in Poole Harbour, which has a chain ferry to Studland, our walking destination. Sandbanks is the Palm Beach of Britain, with the 4^th highest land values in the world. I had never heard of Sandbanks! As we made our way down to ferry, the suburbs gave way to luxury abodes, McMansions. Rick Stein had a restaurant on the high street.

After a short ferry ride, we parked the car in the National Trust car park on the other side and made our way, for an hour, down the beach to Harry’s Rock, ancient formations in the water; they are similar to those found on the Great Ocean Drive in Victoria, Australia, except there are only three of them. On the way, it was rather disconcerting to find amongst the punters, nudists displaying their wares proudly. No modesty here. The message was clearly, “Look at me everybody!” On the ferry home, you could clearly see Brownsea Castle on the island of the same name. The National Trust own the island and there are sweet cottages to rent. Another resolution to go and stay there.

We had a quick look at The Pig – the group of restaurants with luxury rooms at the end of the beach and resolved to come back for a stay.

We then drove closer to the Hampshire border to Mudeford Quay in Christchurch Harbour. There is a passenger ferry which pootles you over to another golden, sandy spit. I was convinced – Dorset has some spectacular beaches.

As we drove home, tired after the fresh air and sun, I felt that summer was really here. Summers are golden times. Songs are devoted to the theme. Songs about holiday romances. Think of Olivia Newton John in Grease, when as Sandy she sings, “Summer loving had me a blast…summer loving happened so fast…”

In my teens I had a huge crush on a boy at Kingsgrove High School called Colin Moody. He was two years my senior and the most eligible boy at school: handsome, clever and a sporting hero. I was friends with his twin sisters Liza and Lindy. I had loved him from afar since day one of starting high school. I looked for him every day. I was sure he didn’t know I existed.

The twins asked me to come camping with the Moody family to a beach, Narabeen, north of Sydney Harbour. It was the December summer holidays and it was day after day of heat and sun. The Beach Boys song Good Vibrations was playing every ten minutes on the radio. Everyone was singing it under their breath.

By then I had two years of school under my belt. Even if Colin didn’t know I existed, I was ecstatic to be at close range to him. Colin had invited his mates from school to stay too. We were all down at the beach after dark, hanging out and mucking around and when we were walking back, I felt an arm slip over my shoulders. It was Colin’s. We were an item for eighteen months. The first bloom of innocent, uncomplicated love. Nothing as sweet.

Today I am back to London.

 

 

It is a sunny start to the day in Hampshire. We travelled back from Glasgow by plane on Saturday. As we were waiting to board, the other plane headed for London was cancelled. The travellers looked gutted. So pleased we were on the other flight. Once you’re homebound, you just want to get there.

It was wonderful to be reunited with Domino and to see the garden at the Old Rectory, revving up for summer. The borders are reaching their crescendo and the rose buds are ready to open. The lavenders have stems and flowers about to open and release their strong scent.

We had a day and night with Peter and Ghislaine in Ayrshire on Friday. They have a magnificent baronial castle on the River Doon. Ghislaine’s forbears built a weir, so the river slows down by the house. This way, you can swim and kayak – in a natural infinity pool.

Peter and Ghislaine are generous in allowing the house to be used, by others, for weddings or special occasions. Just after we left there were wedding drinks for a local couple. The groom was an Aussie, so the bagpipes played Waltzing Matilda.

When Hugo finished Common Entrance aged 13, the test for senior school for boys, he took a group of friends up to inhabit the house and grounds. Ghislaine bought the food and I took over the kitchen, cooking the meals. Not many women I know would hand over the reins lock, stock and barrel to their house. The boys had a Swallows and Amazons time – a contrast to life lived in Chelsea, London – where they had been at school for the previous five years at Sussex House, Cadogan Square, behind Peter Jones. An urban existence.

I am used to their house now, but on my first visit years ago I was overcome by the sheer size and grace of the architecture. The turrets were romantic and the rooms vast and stately. Again I felt like I was in a Jane Austen novel, but set in Scotland. Which Jane never did!

On one occasion we were invited to a hunt at another local, stately home; the one with horses, hounds and a fox substitute. The hunts-people were in scarlet jackets and looked splendid and animated. Staff served nibbles and sherry in silver cups to the assembled crowd and to the mounted hunters.

On another occasion we visited the renovated Dumfries House, a Palladian country house nearby. A consortium headed by Prince Charles purchased the house and the contents in the late 2000s, which included important Chippendale furniture. It is now open to the public. I once sat next to a Marquis (a top title in the hierarchy) at Peter and Ghislaine’s who told me that, as a young man, he used to go to visit the house regularly for dinners and parties. Dinners – black tie of course! The house was then owned by his racing driver friend, Johnny Dumfries. The main family house is Mount Stewart House on the Isle of Bute, which we have also seen. It is vast, in the ilk of the Natural History Museum. Dumfries House was the holiday home, as it was so much smaller!!! The Boswell Book fair, concentrating on biographies is held there. Peter and Ghislaine are very involved. Peter interviews some of the writers.

Today I am off to visit Nicky for a belated birthday treat.