Not even lunchtime and already I’ve had phone calls demanding to know where the blog is. Never mind the blog people, it is nothing short of a miracle that I’m here at all, given the week I’ve had. To give you a small idea my legal advisor tried to confiscate my iPad charger on Thursday for fear that I would use it to garrotte a fiercely enthusiastic young lawyer who thought the secret of success was to scatter the courtroom with the hind legs of exhausted donkeys. Novice and seriously mistaken idea.
An up side of the week was lunch with the girls when we were discussing international affairs over our third bottle of wine – how long can starters take? – and NOT Brad and Angelina, thank you. We are dead highbrow. Conversation naturally turned to the plight of our sisters in the Middle East and my thoughts were with the Afghani girl who has just started dating Useless the Elder. Hasn’t she suffered enough for one lifetime?
A solution to the Gordian knot that is Syria having eluded us we debated instead the merits of the burka with particular reference to Bad Hair Days and Upper Lip Waxing when in a Damascene moment I was struck by an idea of complete and utter brilliance. And not for the first time.
‘A convent!’ I announced to the ladies, most of the other luncheon diners having left as it began to get dark, ‘A convent is the way forward!’.
What excitement this caused for it seemed we were all of the same mind.
Nothing modern – no plain clothes, flat shoes or good works in Africa but something more traditional. Think ‘Call the Midwife’ and their habits, but possibly not in black and white. Very unforgiving on the more mature complexion; more a soft ivory with charcoal grey – and naturally none of those patriarchal restrictions of poverty, chastity and obedience. This isn’t the Middle Ages for Heavens sake. And no religious element. That way lies nothing but trouble as history clearly shows.
Admission to the convent will be based on whether we like you or not and a staunch addiction to the Archers. We will fall quiet twice a day, at 1402 and 1902 and for a full hour on Sunday’s. If this needs explaining consider yourself rejected.
The notion of a silent order was unanimously vetoed.
Our watchword will be humility, a look we practiced over the puddings although it’s a tricky one to master without a wimple and subtle lighting.
So, gentle readers, salute ‘The Humble Little Sisters of Strawberry/ Ambridge’
I may abandon the title Lady Kingston and henceforth be known simply as Mother Superior. Amen to that.

This was the slogan that was supposed to deter young folk from taking drugs but figures show it proved to be a spectacular failure, so many choosing the alternative of ‘Just say yes’ instead, so I am taking the liberty of using it for my own fight against addiction.
I refer to the curse of the mobile phone.
Somebody berated me the other day for not answering my mobile and was aghast to discover that when in my own home, where each floor is equipped with what we old school types refer to as a telephone or ‘land line’I do not feel the need to carry a portable communications device around with me. And indeed, how could I, given that I am always already struggling under the weight of a tray of used crockery, a pile of ironing or a vacuum cleaner? What carefree lives do some people live that they run up and down stairs with empty hands?
This will admittedly prove useful in later life when all these youngsters are crippled with arthritis from their constant texting and gone blind from staring at a tiny screen. Mobile in one hand, guide dog in the other.
Who hasn’t travelled in a train carriage where every single person has their head bowed in prayer over their beloved device? I had lunch this week with six ladies and NOT ONCE did we find it necessary to take a photo of ourselves or our food, or text someone the good news that we were still alive, even though this is never a given at our age obviously. I actually heard that people are asking to be buried with their phones. Sweetie, not even the iPhone 7 will get through to where you’re going although on the plus side if you’re buried with one of those exploding Samsungs it will save on cremation costs.
And on a morbid front it is a FACT that more people now die on British roads from accidents caused by phone usage than by alcohol. Think about it.
My deepest disapproval is directed at women who are glued to their phones when they are with their small children. Never mind that they wander witlessly into traffic, so immersed are they, but the poor baby wouldn’t even be able to,shout for help. Probably the only language Junior has ever master is ‘Yes’, ‘No!!’ and ‘OMG!!!!!’ Just don’t come whining to me when you can’t get them to,do their homework or go to bed because they’re too busy on their tablets.
So that’s my rant for the week but let me not leave you downhearted. There is positive news but, without giving too much of a clue, I shall have to draw a veil over it for a couple of weeks.
Get off the phone readers and watch this space.

I’ve been in prison this week – it was always on the cards you’re thinking – and not for the first time, it must be admitted. My latest incarceration was at Reading Prison, made famous by Oscar Wilde after he served 2 years there for his relationship with Bosie, the son of the Marquess of Queensbury and wrote De Profundis to pass the time. A notoriously bonkers family, my old pal Horace Walpole lived near the Queensburys and remarked gratefully ‘Thank God the Thames is between us’. Not close friends then?
Other visitors, presumably newer to being inside than yours truly, were aghast at the Victorian conditions but I wondered if they realised that it was still being used until three years ago and not much had changed in the intervening century. The cells are still dark and tiny and often contained two inmates but at least latterly they weren’t banged up for 23 hours a day with only the Bible and a Prayer book for entertainment. The one hour a day out of the cells was spent in the chapel, doubtless listening to a sermon. And second prize? Unsurprisingly 10% did not pass Go and collect £200 but went straight on to lunatic asylums.
My first prison visit – not a sleepover, thank you, – was to a large London establishment known locally as ‘The Scrubs’ and it was quite an eye-opener. People of the Daily Mail persuasion imagine something like a Premier Inn with a life of idle luxury spent watching the Jeremy Kyle show and waiting for the drone to deliver your drugs. And again, second prize? Hard to think of anything that would rocket me towards Bedlam any faster. In fact televisions are used as a form of control in the absence of staff who, not unreasonably, expect to be paid something resembling a living wage for their troubles. Its removal is a powerful sanction, given that sending them to their rooms isn’t much of a threat. Guess how many people are typically guarding 200 prisoners? 4. As in less than five and more than three, not very good odds I imagine if they decide one morning NOT to co-operate.
Reading has been opened as a pop-up art gallery and is well worth a visit. Got great reviews. No longed used as a prison for reasons that remain a mystery it is a listed building with Henry 1 possibly buried under the car park – a form of regal internment that’s turning into quite a trend – so no-one knows quite what to do with it.
Pop down there and let me have your ideas on a postcard. Winner announced next week.

Those of you who keep up with my blog and TripAdvisor postings (60,000 devoted followers at the last count) will know that I have been rocketing about the country this summer exploring the hidden treasures – or not – of our Sceptred Isle.
I have already delighted you with my trips of Broadstairs and Sarfend but I have also ventured to Winchelsea and – a drum roll here methinks – Skegness! My hotel of choice near Rye, the very excellent Gallivant, being full I was forced to stay at somewhere called The Lodge. To give you some idea of how dreadful it was check out my review entitled ‘Step aside Basil Fawlty’. Sidney at the Lodge left Basil as far behind as Usain Bolt’s challengers.
Next stop, and I know your brows are knotted already, if Botox doesn’t prevent all movement, was Skegness. To put you out of your misery a girlfriend of mine has moved there to be near to her recently widowed mother and has duly purchased a four-bedroom house in a cul-de-sac leading to the beach for £160,000. And that’s not a typo with a zero missing. It is approximately half of what you would pay for a one bedroom flat in Richmond. Short lease. Needs updating.
There may be unrelenting miles of caravan parks to the north of Skeggie with blatantly inaccurate names like Honeysuckle Farm and Cherry Blossom Acres, instead of the more descriptive Gulag, No. 1 – 50, but go south (No, not as far as London) to the wild life sanctuary and it is actually very nice.
Needless to say there is NOWHERE even remotely nice to dine, unless you are a devotee of the full English Breakfast three times a day, except for one Italian eaterie in a rather grubby lean to in a car park. The maitre’d, blessed with almost as little charm as Sidneyfrom Sussex, looked incredulous when I asked for a table.
‘People book up to a week in advance to get in here’ he growled.
‘Bit like the Chiltern Firehouse?’was my wasted riposte, making a mental note to ask Quintessentially to sort it for me next time.
All of which has at least taken my mind off the house building next door. The other day I noticed that the builders were replacing the fence between our houses and in an ill-advised quip I ask them to build a chalet for my dustbins with any surplus wood. Novice mistake. In a rather sweet attempt to curry favour they had built an edifice that Beidi would have been proud of. All I need is a few goats and some cow bells. Toblerone anyone?