I was momentarily touched when a colleague said that he’d missed my blog recently, the reason being that it made him realise his own lot wasn’t so bad after all.  One does what can, Rupert, and at least you have the wit to realise that what appears to lesser mortals to be frivolous froth is, in fact, up there with ‘The Bridge’.

We are now well into The Season and obviously my time for writing is severely limited, dashing from one society event to the next, often in crippling footwear. Added to which I’ve been on no less than three training courses, one of which was designed to promote pastoral care and focussed on empathy.  Gilding the lily or what?  Naturally I came top, against a very weak field,  but in a caring, non-competitive way.

Then there have been the endless stream of Bank Holidays – when did they start to happen every fortnight? People making advertisements for sofas, a must have item for every extra day off, must be exhausted although in a stab at ordinariness there wasn’t one for the Royal Wedding (Day off, not sofa) just getting married on a Saturday like everyone else.

I went to a friend’s street party and mixed with the Ordinary British until it got too hot and we retired to a resident’s shady garden where we set up a VIP area,  Harry ‘n’ Meghan bunting taking the place of the more traditional velvet rope, and drank ourselves into a stupor.  Who knew rose wine was so potent?  Certainly not the usual suspects who ended up in the usual hedge.

Now my attention is to be entirely taken up with nuptials of a different kind.  My old school pal, Sluice Nurse,  is expecting a visitor from Australia where she once lived – or was more likely deported for yet another of her driving offences. (Note to self: check when we stopped sending miscreants to the colonies.  And why.)  He is apparently a millionaire with a crush on her and she wants me and Staff Nurse to accompany them on a tour of Scotland in the role of chaperones.

Staff and I have other plans.  No surprise there, readers.  What better spouse is there than one who is seriously rich and lives on the other side of the world, providing he stays there? (Why, oh why didn’t I marry the other Rupert,  Murdoch?)  Sluice says he is mind numbingly  boring as if that ever debarred a man from going down the aisle.  We plan to dress as bridesmaids AT ALL TIMES and carry bouquets.  I will scour the local charity shops for a wedding dress and we are all set.  Let’s hope Sluice has warmed to the idea by the time we arrive at our final secret destination – you’ve guessed it  – Gretna Green.

I had a letter in The Times this week in which I referred to my own courting days, when my husband-to-be advised me to cross the road via a zebra crossing because I’d getter higher damages in the event of an accident.  I forwarded it to him, reminding him of his (only) romantic gesture and pointed out that it was probably the only pro bono work he ever did.  The bill arrived by return.