‘Life’ a wise man once said to me when I was a headstrong young woman, ‘will not be a fortnight of golden moments’.
This past week wasn’t even ten minutes of them. I was, as my mother would have said, overtired and silly following several days of burning the birthday candles at both ends. Both the weather and I were humid and overcast/hung. Living with the detritus created by two adult sons was getting on my nerves (Yes, even I, hardly Mrs Beeton, was beginning to notice the chaos they left throughout the house). And then I had an exceptionally tough time at my day job when I had to deal with three cases, all of them the most unspeakable crimes, one of which left me in tears.
Most of us reading this live in a very sheltered bubble compared to many other people which makes it even more gut wrenching when you come face to face with very, very real life.
Enter the youngest son whose particular talent since he was tiny has been to give incredibly good advice, which I have, on occasion, taken.
‘Talk to someone’ he said. And a list, please, of people who would chose to listen to this? ‘Friends’ he said. ‘That’s what they’re for’. So I did and goodness me they were wonderful.
I was with one particular chum who has worked in nursing all her life and she was describing how she dealt with the feelings you’re left with after terrible situations. Her phone rang and it was a 95 year old lady who used to be one of our clients when we were involved in cooking lunches for the elderly. No doubt many of you remember the anarchy that was Gravygate. This lady had walked a mile to her doctors in the heat and been kept waiting for an hour and a half before being sent home with a packet of pills.
My immediate reaction was predictably to suggest that we go round and slap the receptionist. Where do they breed these people? Couldn’t she have put the old lady at the front of the queue or was everyone waiting even older than 95?
Grabbing a few vital supplies we jumped in the car and went instead to the old lady’s house. Nurse did some nursing and got her into bed while I prepared food and drinks. Her response? ‘I’ve never been a bother like this’.
And of course she wasn’t. We were only too pleased to be off on another adventure although this one turned out well, certainly when compared with the time we were in a pantomime together, or managed to destroy the entire electrical system at our sons’ school minutes before an important visitor arrived. Let’s draw a thick burkha over that one.
And what did the patient most good was not the medicine but the fact that her friends spent time listening to her worries and putting her mind at rest.
It is good to talk, even if it’s not about something jolly.
Thank you all for listening.

What a week it has been in Merrie England readers! We have barely had time to mention the weather.
Two even more important things have been occupying our thoughts this week – the soap opera of British politics and my birthday, the difference being that although no two people could agree on events at Westminster a great many were kind enough to wish me well in the coming year, even if I shall have to overcome the disappointment of not being surprisingly invited to be a Minister for either side. (SURELY some mistake?)
Unlike Mr Cameron’s now empty diary mine has been packed; my Manolos have barely touched the floor. I have been taken out for afternoon tea no less than three times and what a joy it is that this wonderful tradition is now firmly back in fashion. Eggy sandwiches and champagne – is there a finer culinary combination?
I visited the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy and I highly recommend twenty minutes viewing the dross on display there before going upstairs to see David Hockney’s latest work. It’s like cooling water after a trek across a hot and barren desert or slipping on a Valentino gown after a day in nylon workwear. Not to be missed and extremely nice tea available at Fortnums across the road.
Impossible to miss is the extension to the Tate Modern, an enormous MacMansion of Art with only two drawbacks. Firstly the lifts, of which there are admittedly dozens, are as crowded as Japanese trains and appear to be operated by means of a magic word which is kept secret. Secondly the only, only thing worth looking at is the view from the 10th floor terrace, much higher than it sounds, and it can only be a matter of time before someone is blown off by the hurricane strength winds. Camera at the ready, people. I liked the irony of the notices requesting that visitors do not let their gaze fall into the surrounding luxury tower blocks. Walk round with our eyes closed then? You didn’t need to ask. The art on display is even worse than the Summer Exhibits; at least those have the enthusiasm of amateurs, although on reflection the Tates exhibitors could not possibly be making a living as painters, unless they combine it with a little light decorating as well. My eyes were spurting blood and there was a thin, high shriek as my skin tried to tear itself from my body and follow Elvis out of the building. On the plus side there was lovely cake.
And baked goods brings me, somewhat immodestly, to the news that I won the Bake Off (Savoury Section) competition at the Strawberry Hill House Summer Party. And those who know my feelings concerning kitchen based activities will think that this was rather more worthy of a front page splash than Boris’s becoming Foreign Secretary. Turns out we both have hidden depths.

I sat next to a charming man at a lecture yesterday – actually an ex-neighbour whose property value and spirits have doubtless both lifted since my departure. The lecture was about 3D printing of a Grinling Gibbons inspired picture frame (We know how to party) and he asked if I was planning to visit Italy this summer. I was reminded of an impossibly grand dinner I once attended in Rome (No, I dont know why I was asked either) and the very snooty Italian on my right informed me that he never went to his palazzo in Tuscany in the summer. ‘Nobody goes there then’ he sneered, ‘Except the English’.
And with a single leap we arrive at my latest idea to make loadsamoney without the indignity of working.
Road signs, readers, road signs!
How many times, bowling along the nation’s highways and byways, have you noticed a road sign warning of the imminent danger of a passing deer? And how many deer have you seen within a mile of a road, unless, like me, you live near one of the Royal parks? Answer, I venture, is none. Not even one.
England is home to millions of cows and I imagine that at some time since cars were invented two or three of them may have wandered into the path of a passing vehicle. But deer? Not since the time of Robin Hood. Indeed people pay thousands of pounds in Scotland to crawl through midge-infested heather just to catch a glimpse of one yet someone, somehow has managed to corner, nay flood, the roadsides with Deer Signs, and probably made a fortune in the process.
And thus, via two roundabouts and a B road we come to Italy where there are more road signs to the kilometre than olive trees. There are signs telling you the name of each river you cross – what, in case you are travelling by boat? There are signs telling you the length of each tunnel you enter. ‘Hmmm, I dont think I’ll take this route; this tunnel is more than 175 metres long.’ There are endless signs warning of falling rocks which, if I am brutal, are pretty useless even as signs go. The rocks are either falling at any given time,in which case its a bit late to do anything about it, or they’re not. So why have the sign at all? Even I can see the sense of signs about old people crossing or children or exceptionally sharp bends. Thanks for that useful warning, provider of signs. I will slow down or possibly speed up if I’ve had about all I can stand of the old, the young or life itself. But rock falls? Advice Signor Signio, prego.
Touring around America I noticed that every single bridge had a sign warning that it could be icy in winter and the (previously unsuspected) frugal part of me thought it would make more sense, economically speaking, to simply flag up those bridges which held no such risk. In Tuscany, an area not popularly known as a ski resort, there are signs warning of snow about every two hundred metres. When? Where is this snow? Two hours drive further north, I grant you that the possibility exists but in that part of Italy the only peril facing the snow sign was that the paint would peel off in the searing summer heat. The man who persuaded the locals to cough up for those deserves a medal or a title or both.
So creative chums, let us put our collective heads together and seek out those parts of the world where the deer sign has yet to appear. Let us unite to save Bambi and make a few bob. There’s money in them there roads, friends. Welcome to the venison-lined lay-by.

I am going to start with a quote from Horace Walpole (Google him and the lovely Strawberry Hill House)
“Don’t let this horrid weather put you out of humour with your garden tho I own it is a pity that we should have brought gardening to perfection and have too bad a climate to enjoy it. It is strictly true this year – that ours is the most beautiful country in the world when glazed and framed.”
I am personally feeling a little glazed this morning having spent the last week on constant alert for a plague of frogs or locusts and then being tricked into celebrating the Welsh victory in an Italian cafe. All this without the in-house trials and tribulations at Kingston Kastle, a rich vein of inspiration.
My boys have been bickering like British politicians and readers may recall a previous incident when they came to blows under the dining table about the homophobic nature of the King James Bible. (You couldn’t make this up.). I sent them both to their rooms, an obvious sanction for people in their twenties. The latest spat was about the unauthorised wearing of a jacket and broke the most important of Commandments: Thou shalt make wake thy Mother up with thine bickering. Useless the Elder ended up with a very swollen hand which required minute and frequent inspection, often in the early hours, for the next week and my offer of immediate amputation was dismissed, dare I say it, out of hand. After a medically qualified visitor expressed a vague opinion that it might actually be damaged nothing else would do but a blue light, bells ringing dash to the nearest hospital where he was X-rayed within ten minutes. The staff there are old friends and know procrastination is pointless.
It turned out that he had an injury popular with the boxing fraternity (and prisoners punching walls in jails) so on the plus side the plaster cast could be passed off as a tribute to the late, great Mohammed Ali.
The fun continued when my late husband popped in to collect some incredibly important book he had abandoned along with his wife and children a quarter of a century ago and now wants back – only the book, needless to say. He remarked that I was looking tired which might appear to be concern to someone who had never met him.
‘I certainly am tired’ I informed him, somewhat archly, ‘Tired, exhausted, worn out and fed up with all of you. Perhaps you would like to do the next 25 years of solo parenting?’
How we laughed! And I would have punched him if I didn’t need both hands for the next month of nursing duties.

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.

My thoughts have turned of late, excuse the impending pun, to mortality. I have taken to reading the Hatch, Match and Dispatch section in the Times – the Facebook of the over forties – and any number of people are said to have ‘died peacefully in their sleep’. Now logically I accept that the majority of them were very elderly and/or very ill but there must be exceptions. We all retire to bed at night and for all we know that could be it. Food for thought readers.

Anyway this has prompted me to buy (Too cruel to keep you waiting until next week but being me I am of course tempted to turn this into a money-spinning competition) a grave! Actually I’ve bought two because my long experience tells me that given enough time it ALWAYS pays to have a spare of everything, with the possible exception of a life threatening illness. Today’s top tip.

Coming from a long line of very organised worriers my family did own a number of plots next to a beautiful Norman church in deepest Sussex but due to an unusually busy period during the late seventies these were all filled up bar one.

The midst of a bereavement is never the best time to commit details to memory and for reasons too complex to go into, when my mother died none of us could remember which of the plots were still vacant, so to speak. There were headstones marking the actual spot, headstones in remembrance of ashes scattered elsewhere and in one case two headstones for the same person on different plots. Faced with having to pop her in with someone she had never really liked, most of the above, we were forced to buy yet another one.

When I went to get my own finally resting place sorted Mrs Kindly from the Parish Council asked me who they were for. Obviously I had several preferred candidates but in the absence of a cast iron alibi I was reluctant to name names.
‘Put me down as having first refusal’ I replied. ‘You qualify for the residents rate’ she said and so I jolly well should. (I stopped myself from asking exactly how you could be non-resident in a grave. Just) You don’t get much more resident than a family who, according to the impeccable research done by my mother’s cousins wife, were there to greet that early illegal immigrant, William of Normandy when he landed not ten miles away. Was I not christened and confirmed in that very church, even sang in the choir and do my sisters not marry there, every time? Always in white.

So when the time comes to bid a teary farewell could somebody somewhere please make a note that I’m for 149? Thank you.

PS Job done so we popped into the local hostelry for a small sherry. My review of Salehurst Halt is available on Trip Advisor. They clearly failed to notice a senior restaurant reviewer was in their midst. Novice, novice mistake.