I didn’t comment on the referendum last week but now it’s all done and dusted I’m going to say something. You may not like it but it’ll be good for you.
I have spent a lot of time in courtrooms over the years, often not in the dock, and it’s made me a firm defender of the jury system. 12 people chosen at random with different ages, jobs, education and means but by and large they produce sound verdicts. We are lucky enough to have fair trials and an ability to chose how we are governed. These privileges are rightly cherished. We accept that there will be winners and losers in an election – that, readers, is how it works. You know that so why, in a country where it used to be considered bad form to be a poor loser, are so many petulant people, almost always resident within the M25, or even more petulantly not even living in this country, throwing their ‘Remain’ stickers out of their prams?
Don’t you think it gives an unattractive picture of a country that professes to embrace democracy but only if their side wins? Or should I say, rather more accurately, this being Britain, their class?
Everyone’s a champagne socialist in London – we just don’t like the way that traditional Labour supporters don’t agree with us. We want open borders; haven’t we all got Polish builders and Ukrainian cleaning ladies? But handy Eastern Europeans are not really what immigration means to people in the real world, those in low paid jobs (like your cleaner) or people on zero hours contracts. I venture that I have had far more contact with immigrants than most people reading this and I can tell you that the way to stop the rise of the far right is to take the wind out of their sails and ensure that everyone who comes to this country is here legally, has a job waiting for them and understands that if they commit crimes they will be in line for a swift exit.
Pre-referendum we were all berating Mr Cameron, our ex-leader designate, for allowing multi-nationals to evade taxes but without pausing for breath decided he was completely right about Europe. We wept crocodile tears about Greece but were guided in our referendum choice by Goldman Sachs. Remind me, weren’t they involved somewhere along the line with Greece getting all those crippling loans?
Something else your ordinary British doesn’t care for is being threatened. We have a long history of standing up to bullies and any number of laws against it yet half the world felt able to heap all sorts of dire warnings of the Apocalyse that awaited us if we didn’t do as we were told. Britain staying in Europe clearly suited an awful lot of people, and a lot of awful people, but not the people who actually live here and try to bear in mind that their majority viewis the only one which matters. I was impressed that after decades of nanny state ninnies there is still enough backbone around to say ‘Thanks for your input but we think we’ll do it anyway’.
Only time will tell if the electorate is right but I would venture a tenner on Sweden or Denmark following us off the sinking ship fairly quickly.
If you believe in a democratic system then accept the result with just a bit of grace, even if you disagree. That’s all for today.

“Where is my favourite blog?” Comes the distraught call from readers across the Internet. In purdah, like the Civil Service, until the wretched wreferendum is behind us. I am mindful, dear people, of how slavishly you follow my advice and hesitate to influence you at this most important time.

I am hugely bored with the entire process and am now at the point you reach when you are in the 42nd week of pregnancy and anything, even a breach birth, seems like an option worth considering.

It seems that everyone on the planet has a view on what we should do but I suspect just a smidgen of self interest from at least some of them. The only opinion that does not appear to have been consulted is that of the British people who will have to live with the result, whichever way it goes. Let’s wait and see what they want.

See you all on the other side.

The season is well under way and my thoughts, like many ladies of South West London, turn to Wimbledon. The organisers, in their infinite wisdom, employ many of them as drivers for the players – yet another marvellous opportunity to do a little something for the community – and one year I decided that this would be a selfless way to raise money for my charity of the moment. Yes, ladies, they actually pay you to swan around with the likes of Nadal in your passenger seat. An opportunity not to be missed even at the cost of having to wear a vile, mainly polyester outfit. Sartorially speaking, a suicidally low point.
The only area where there was any scope for self expression was in footwear – not really an area likely to appeal to men who had chosen to spend their waking lives in plimsolls however. And feet are not normally the first thing you notice about a driver and it strained even my vigorous imagination to think of a plausible reason to have my Manolos balanced on the dashboard – at least on a first drive.
Eventually I dispensed with footwear altogether. The stiletto heels kept getting wedged under the accelerator and what with the passengers’ screaming and the squeal of other drivers’ tyres it was almost impossible to hear my mobile phone.
One player did observe (in French) that driving without shoes was illegal in France (More EU interference) and I was able to reassure him (also in French) that it is permitted in England providing you’re not wearing socks – just like the rule for men in sandals.
All this reminds me of an unfortunate incident in my distant past when I spent a fortnight on a shoot working with a truly gorgeous director. (Not at ITN, obviously. I could never understand why television employed so many attractive women but only hired men in cardigans who smoked pipes and ignored us.) More than a little naively I asked the crew’s advice and the senior cameraman offered to ply the object of my attention with strong drink and report back.
‘He’s a foot fetishist’ he slurred. ‘Wear interesting shoes’.
Yet again a novice mistake. I spent the next two weeks tottering around in agony and heels that Naomi Campbell would have refused to wear, many of them borrowed from friends with variously sized feet. Every day the crew would award marks out of ten but from Mr Russell and Bromley – nothing.
Years later I met him at a drinks party and was surprised to discover that he remembered me. ‘Good memory’ I said, ‘I had no idea that you had been aware of my existence’.
‘Indeed I was’ he said, regretfully, ‘But I was told you were dating the senior cameraman. You must remember him, whatshisname, the foot fetishist you wore all those wonderful shoes for’.

If I have learnt one important thing from my sons, other than a long and oft repeated list of my short-comings, it is the need to haggle. Not over minor issues like bedtimes and pocket money, although it was here that they cut their expensively maintained teeth, but rather haggling in the souk sense. They couldn’t be any better at it if their father had been a camel seller.
Were they to have a motto for life, putting aside the constant refrain of ‘It’s not my fault’, it would have to be ‘Never. Pay. Retail.’.
I am not by nature one of life’s bargainers. My late husband once remarked that I was the only person he knew who could persuade someone to charge me more than they had intended – this followed an unhappy incident with a removal firm best left in the mists of time.
Imagine then my astonishment when Elder Son and I went into an Oxford Street emporium where he wanted to buy a London Underground T-shirt. No, I don’t know why.
With garment in hand he approached the assistant and flashed his Brad Pitt smile. ‘I want this T-shirt’ he said ‘and I’ll give you a fiver for it’. ‘Its £12’ responded the hapless girl, an antelope facing a hungry tiger. He nodded patiently. ‘I know it’s £12 to tourists but I’m not a tourist. I know it’s not worth £12, you know it’s not worth £12 and I’m going to give you a fiver. OK?’
And bugger me, it was!
On the same day we caught a bus, another first for me, and he explained to the conductor (Those were the days) in simple terms that he wouldn’t be paying the fare – and he didn’t. In an instant the man had grasped something that had eluded me in my dealings with Elder Son for many a year – no is simply not a option.
His brother is equally adept. The savings he made on a (fake) Prada bag and (also fake) Rolex watch in Barcelona virtually covered the cost of his flight. I am surprised that he is not actually banned from Portebello Road where stall holders have been known to take cover under their counters as he approaches. He once ‘persuaded’ the owner of a vintage clothes shop to reduce by half the price of a gown that had caught my eye. ‘Just consider yourself lucky his brother isn’t here’ I consoled the unfortunate vendor, ‘You’d be paying us to take it away’.
Although I’ve seen them in action many, many times the ability to do it myself proves sadly elusive. An unhappy aspect of my somewhat Luddite tendencies is that I am forced to buy a new printer whenever the old one runs out of ink and as a result I am on first name terms with the pasty youth at the local Comet. Last week, yet again in need of a replacement I, his bestest customer, attempted to get the price reduced.
He was not easily swayed and I had foolishly ventured out without my minders. Eventually, exasperated, I hauled out that old chestnut ‘Do I look as if I’m made of money?’.
And with a speed and smugness I wouldn’t have thought him capable if he replied ‘Yes, unfortunately Madam, you do’.

Tips for the week: don’t bother with ‘Verseilles’ – no costumes, no drama – or ‘Top Gear’ more like ‘Idling in neutral’ now it’s gone politically correct. Do see ‘The Nice Guys’ – a ridiculous funny romp.