I had a thoroughly successful day yesterday, fulfilling an intention to visit the restored Kettles Yard Museum in Cambridge which I read about last year.  (Charming.  Worth a detour)  Even though the route involved travelling the entire length of the North Circular – not something to be undertaken by the faint hearted – we parted the traffic as Moses did the waves, the sun shining on the righteous. And not before time.

Cambridge was perfect; gentler sunshine, prettier rivers and fewer tourists that Venice and an opportunity to eat at the delightful Harriet’s Tea House, full of Japanese people thinking this was how the ordinary British lived on a daily basis. A note to other visitors: beware of the bicycles.  They swoop down on you like manic snowboarders on the piste.  Terrifying.

However, the highlight of the outing was the drive back to London (Am I the only person who breathes a sigh of relief whenever they see ‘London’ on a road sign?) Having  disappointingly not seen a single Eddie Stobbart lorry on the outward journey we saw no less than FIVE going home.  And God had smiled on this venture by sending me a co-driver who was capable not only of spotting a large lorry hurtling towards us at speed but was able to take a photograph in less than twenty minutes. Needless to say that this was not Sluice Nurse who I frequently think should not be driving AT ALL given her inability to see other vehicles and her lamentable reaction times, to say nothing of her motoring convictions.  I may have to consider her position.

Beside this success the rest of the week pales into insignificance.  My son’s birthday, helping to choose the perfect plant for a friend’s fox infested garden (Cordyline in a rather fetching pot) and a visit to the theatre to see ‘The Portrait of Dorian Grey’ which, although excellent in many respects, did not feature a lead actor of breath-taking beauty which is rather the point of the story.

But with 5 Eddie’s in the log, the ducks settled on the pond and a letter in ‘The Times’ nothing can lower my spirits.

 

Frankly my heart said ‘Game over’ as soon as the happy clappy American preacher overstayed his welcome at Harry and Meaghan’s wedding. She might be forgiven for not having mastered all the rules so early on but Harry knows better.  Royal occasions run like clockwork and you don’t try to upstage the Archbishop of Canterbury by your crowd pleasing antics (The Duke of Edinburgh and the Princess Royal just two who were rocking with laughter) and certainly not in front of his (earthly) boss, aka Her Majesty the Queen, head of the Church of England.

There had already been murmurings about the tiara tantrum on an Elton John scale, Meaghan not having grasped that you don’t parade about in diamonds given/taken from somewhere that is now beyond the pale. ‘What Meghan wants, Meghan gets’ said Harry, hammering in the final nail.  Novice, novice mistake as the Queen doubtless pointed out when she called him in to ‘discuss’ it.

I have heard two versions of the fraternal fracture.  Some say the wives don’t get on but I think Kate is way too savvy to make that obvious and the other story going the rounds is that Harry doesn’t approve of his brother’s friendship with a certain Turnip Toff, given their parents unhappy marital history.  Who knows?

Toss into the mix the cost of their home renovations and talk of a home birth away from the nosy British public (Who fund these things) and it is game over.  There’s a reason that the Queen allegedly has cereal served in a Tupperware box and allows a single electric bar fire be spotted in photographs.  Learn from someone whose been doing the job since 1952 and is still loved.  In Britain we don’t hold with the notion that is you’ve got it, flaunt it.  That way lies the French Revolution.

So the men in grey suits have come up with an unarguable suggestion.  Ship ‘em off to Africa.  They are always banging on about how much they love it, although if memory serves Harry’s initial interest was sparked by an earlier girlfriend rather than by humanitarian aims.  We’ve all been on holiday and thought how wonderful it would be to live there full time  but let’s see how long it is before the magic wears off.  You don’t sign up to be a princess to get stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go and very few opportunities for dressing up.  I certainly wouldn’t!

Doubters gave the marriage a life span of five years at the outset.  I’d wager that the odds – and the length – have shortened quite a lot.

I realise that we are all worn down, exhausted by a tsunami of boredom after – what is it? – ten years of B*****,  but even so I am appalled by how low we have now sunk as a nation.

I went to a quiz last night (Yes, my team did win.  How sweet of you to ask) and there was a round on the novels of Dickens.  That was hard work despite the fact that I am probably one of the few people living who has actually read ‘Little  Dorrit’, verily a rival to B***** in length and tedium if ever there was one, and it occurred to me that we are probably the last generation that will be remotely familiar with that style of writing, unless Disney decides to turn the miserable, dwarfish and sanctimonious heroine into some sort of Hollywood princess.

I have long suspected that we have collectively abandoned anything remotely intellectually taxing and this was confirmed beyond reasonable doubt yesterday when I rang the National Gallery.  I had read in The Times that there was to be an exhibition of the works of Sean Scully, a favourite of a chum, so I went to the NG website to find out more.  Naturally I went first to the section concerned with shopping opportunities to see what the book of the exhibition was like and if there were any prints of his work available.  It was almost certainly easier to find the Minotaur in the maze than locate a given artist so I turned to the trusty landline and rang them.  Old enough to remember  that as a choice?

I feel that only the extensive use of capital letters will do justice to the horror that I am about to reveal.  Stop reading now if you are under 18 or of a delicate disposition, not very likely but one wants to avoid being sued.  I enquired of the hapless youth who answered how it was possible to find the works of a given artist as the prints were displayed by title or popularity with no sign of an artist’s name.  He said that they had done ‘extensive research’, which is youth-speak for ‘Googled it’, and discovered that people weren’t interested in names.  The most preferred option was to search by COLOUR.  I swear this is true.  Look at the website for yourself and there is an option to find something you like the look of by clicking on a COLOUR.

Let me remind you that we are not talking about something you might buy from Ikea to match the curtains in the spare bedroom.  This is what is on offer from our NATIONAL gallery.  I can’t swear to this (Google it if you can be bothered) but I would be staggered to find this happened at the Louvre or the Prada.  ‘Are you’ I asked in what may have sounded a slightly arch tone, ‘selling art or wallpaper?’

Readers, even with my seemingly indomitable, Dunkeresque optimism in the face of overwhelming odds, even I despair.

 

Men get a bad press nowadays (often from me) but I’m prepared to stand up and say some of my best friends are men.  And both my sons, of course.  So let this be the week when we sing their praises and of course the word ‘singing’ is a very handy lead in.

Last Sunday was the Big Concert.  We had sold about 900 tickets for a performance at Cadogan Hall and all we had to do was produce something worth listening to.  Step forward Maestro Michael McLoughlin, who has given blood, sweat and literally tears in his attempt to turn us from a cats’ chorus to a choir.  God alone knows why he didn’t give up or how he ever imagined that we could succeed.  His belief was up there with people who think Brexit will happen in our lifetime.  But it did.

I will be the first to admit we weren’t the absolute perfection he was aiming for and it must be said that the audience, almost entirely friends and family, might have been on the partisan side. But.  But.  We were a bloody triumph.  Two standing ovations and we took six bows.  By the end my back was hurting almost as much as my throat.  So thank you Michael for believing in us against all the available evidence.  He also gave the bouquet he was presented with to ‘a very special woman’.  It was Mothers’ Day and his mother had flown over from Ireland to be there.  God knows how she didn’t just die of pride on the spot.  He deserves a medal.

Also on my list for Birthday Honours is Bob the Builder.  Hearing through secret sources that he had a free day I managed to lure him to Kastle Kingston to tackle the million and one defects that drive me mad on a daily basis. (And you were wondering what caused it?  Look forward to days, possibly weeks of serene sanity). I now have functioning taps, flushing loos, working door handles; the list of things you can find for a handyman to sort is almost endless but – and this is TRUE – somethings he merely scowled at things and they started behaving.  A living miracle worker and no, you can’t have his number.

Finally to my own little miracles, my two sons.  Is there any better thing in the world for a mother than to know that her children are well and happy? The Holy Grail of parenting, people.  Henry managed to miss my stella performance (He slept through it and not even in the Hall) but more than redeemed himself with a card he gave me later.  It said on the front ‘Happy Mother’s Day.  Luckily I turned out awesome’.

And inside.  ‘I know the irony won’t be lost on you’.

My work here is done.