A quick note to self that Autumn has officially returned, heating and opaque tights back on and tonight we get an extra hour in bed, the latter information never having been fully grasped by Miss Kitty who continues to demand feeds at four hourly intervals  regardless of the season.

At the risk of making Strawberry  Hill House as repetitive as Brexit I will just mention that I have been there twice more this week, once to escort a group of retired Magistrates who were as well behaved as one would expect although sadly unable to locate a book of instructions for 18th century beaks which apparently lurks on the library shelves.   A shining example to other visitors – I should have filmed them.  Last night we gave other visitors the chance to tour the house at night accompanied by a series of actors posing as characters ranging from a serial killer painted by Hogarth to Cardinal Wolsey.  A brilliant evening, sadly now sold out but something that it would be madness not to repeat.  Watch this space – or the House website if you require actual details.

More drama on Tuesday when the lights at my day job burst into flames. Probably an ill-aimed thunderbolt.  Obviously the fire brigade had to be called – at my insistence – and the afternoon passed far more pleasantly than usual with me able to demonstrate my considerable knowledge of fire extinguishers and take a number of selfies, including one in the actual fire engine.   I forwarded this to colleagues who were not lucky enough to be there, one of whom who enquired, somewhat archly I thought, where I was going to drive to.  “To the pub” I replied “to celebrate saving the building. With me at the wheel.  Obvs”.  I expect to make the front page of next months in house magazine.  Let me know how many copies you’d like.

The week ended in hospital – this is turning into a habit – where a very sweet young woman of Oriental origin who introduced herself by the somewhat unlikely name of Maureen gave my heart a detailed examination via ultra sound.  A bit like seeing your unborn baby for the first time although hopefully I won’t have to give birth to it in six months time.  It took forever because people kept wandering in and chatting which, whilst a glowing tribute to my cloak of invisibility, makes a slight nonsense of the ‘Do not disturb.  Consultation in progress’ sign on the door.

The examination required deep breaths to be taken and held for several seconds.  After about thirty minutes of this Maureen said “Now take you final breath”.  No sense of irony then?

Up and at it at 6.08.  Evidence that Lady K is back on top form?  Sadly not, merely the result of a friend in Thailand deciding that I would welcome a text with pictures of her husband and a request to remind her of what I gave her for her birthday – a week ago.  She will claim jet lag but I draw immense satisfaction from the knowledge that although she is ten years younger, something she does frequently remember, she is clearly already  in possession of few of her marbles than I am.

Back to the only real item of interest this week,  given that I am going to,spare you details of the conversation I had with the Head of Making Traffic Even Worse at the local council.  It turns out the whole scheme (A 20 mph speed limit on every road in the borough) is funded by Transport for London in an attempt to make car travel so unbearable that we take to the buses.  What a brilliant scheme. And what could possibly go wrong?

Much more importantly I am in a state of shock and awe and I speak as a woman who thought Niagara Falls was over-rated.  The exhibition, The Lost Treasures of Horace Walpole,  has finally opened at Strawberry Hill House, or it will later today if you want to be slavishly accurate; not something that ever bothers me.  Leader of fashion that I am, I have already been twice.  It was described by one journalist as one of the ten best things he had ever seen and this was NOT the Culture Correspondent of the Sun.   Jaw dropping, people, an absolute MUST SEE.

When I first went to the house over twenty years ago, it was full of filing cabinets and strip lighting, with the ‘damask’ hanging off the walls.  After years of fund raising and restoration we opened in 2010 with a magical transformation.  The house was beautiful but empty.  Since then several items, or replicas, have returned, the contents having been scattered to the four corners of the earth in a sale in 1842. But now, like the Terminator, they are back.  Not everything but about 140 items and the effect is astonishing.  Don’t do anything else today, don’t get up, don’t make coffee, do absolutely nothing until you’ve booked a ticket. Our poor ugly duckling turns out to be the most beautiful swan in the world.

And buy an umbrella in the gift shop.  They’re adorable.

At the other end of the spectrum of pleasure I visited the Oceania exhibition at the Royal Academy.  Not really worth a detour, even though you can get in free if you happen to have a New Zealand passport.  I did get a very nice email from the management when I told them that in their cafe, which has no signage, it takes three members of staff twelve minutes to dust the Kit Kats and finally get round to serving a coffee, information which I will be sharing with my 127,000 followers on Trip Advisor.

I related this sorry tale to the cafe manager at Strawberry Hill  and asked him what would become of his staff if he got a similar complaint.  Let’s just say I am pretty certain it could never happen.  Yet another reason to go. See you there.

Yes, the relentless drought that was the three months without my blog has come to an end, not because of any motivation on my part, (That would be an unusual event) but because of the persistent complaints from my reader(s), culminating in a visit from Aggrieved Architect of Arundel demanding immediate action.  Not, let me make it clear, that I have been idle for a single, solitary second.

The early part of the Season was the usual manic whirlwind but rather than die down as is traditional in August, a month when it is usually so cold and wet that you might as well go shooting in Scotland, everyone partied on in the capital.  Highlights, I like to think,  were two parties I gave, one involving a number of complete strangers which was particularly successful, and Useless the Younger developing a taste for hurling heavy items of furniture off the second floor balcony.  At my behest I should add.   He didn’t just start doing it on a whim although it being UTY no-one would be remotely surprised. I won’t go into details because I am still reeling from the news that his latest – and horrifyingly profitable – career is as a tattooist.  Do let me know if you fancy your body being permanently engraved by an enthusiastic beginner.  Mates rates, obvs.

Before I could turn round I had to organise a wedding in Scotland – outfits by Frieda Kahlo and PAC-a-Mac in a particularly lovely shade of fuschia to match the bride’s nose.  There was the tiniest of hiccups caused by over enthusiastic pre-toasting of the happy couple and the groom ended up with one of the bridesmaids by mistake.  An annulment is imminent.  There are photographs of the event available for £9.99 and the usual sae.  Over 18s only.

Before I could sober up it was harvest time at the allotment and the gruelling heat outside was outdone by the clouds of steam from the pickling and preserving in the kitchen. A bumper year for blackberries since you ask.

There is also a new and rather time consuming man in my life.  OMG, you are thinking, the woman has finally lost (the little that was left, or for that matter ever existed) her reason.  Be still your beating hearts, the young man in question is a puppy and I am only babysitting for his real owner.  He is a miniature schnauzer and very beautiful, I hope it goes without saying.  We go for walks which take hours not only because he is unable to pass a fag end in the gutter without trying to eat it (Panic Googling of ‘Does nicotine kill dogs) but also because it is rare to pass anyone en route without them stopping to exclaim on his cuteness.  I am definitely going to get one.

All this finally, inevitably  took its toll and it ended in a blue light trip to the Bedlam that is our local A and E.  The staff, none of whom appeared to be over 25, were bemused to be treating someone who was actually English and could understand what they were saying to the extent that someone asked if I was a doctor. Staggeringly I resisted the temptation to say yes.  I discharged myself when the risk of dying of boredom rather than a myocardial infarction became overwhelming and I appear to have survived.  If no blog appears next week you’ll know I made the wrong decision.  An unlikely event.