A Big Stick To Hold On To

The weekends here in the countryside just seem to hurtle by with a great flurry of activity. All unique to us, all fun and all within easy driving distance and without the stress inducing addition of traffic and London parking issues. On Saturday handsome husband took our smallest chap and I for late breakfast in our Ottolenghi equivalent high up in an ancient Saxon hill top town. We were served delectable homemade pastries, my favourite being a croissant stuffed full of cinnamon laced apples, which I wickedly dipped in to my rich and creamy hot chocolate, totally sinful I know but life is for living, and I knew we would be doing some walking to inspect the new boutique that has opened here.

On leaving the town we whizzed down the hill at great speed, hair flying in the breeze, towards our next destination and event, an open day at our favoured Organic Farm where we found novel wares on offer and (more) food. We were particularly taken with the Stick Man who makes the most extraordinary and elegant walking sticks which are exquisitely decorated and other enchanting wooden paraphernalia. Handsome husband likes to have a stick to grasp on our lengthy walks and chose one with a handle shaped as a human thumb, I think every gentleman should have a big stick.
The evening was taken up with a trip to our pub, where we ate heartily and were entertained by tales of a days shooting by some insanely macho chaps dressed in what I consider a rather dandy array of breeks (short trousers), waistcoats, check shirts and ties. Can men be macho and dandy at the same time became the topic of conversation with handsome husband, who explained that the correct dress code was imperative at these country pursuit events and there was nothing dandy about it. I will take his word for it as he can be quite persuasive, and as an avid reader of the Shooting Times is all knowing on issues of country attire.
We rose to the sounds of bells ringing out from the church and discussed while eating berries and warmed brioche in bed from my silver tray, what activities we should participate in. We had several options, the Victorian Christmas Fair with ice rink at the school (chilly), drinks at the pub with some friends (afternoon hangover), or a trip to a local antiques fair (liable to purchase something totally unnecessary). Instead of doing any of the above we opted for something far more earthy and handsome husband, the dog and I went on a winter wonderland walk here on a bright, crisp morning ensuring we put his big stick to good use.

For some naughty treats to eat visit Turnbulls for every gourmet whim.

Something Furry to Keep Me Warm

It has been getting quite chilly down here, now that winter has finally arrived, and I have been keeping myself cosy and warm by layering up with cashmere and silk, and staying close to the Aga. We are also fortunate in having large open fires (in most of the rooms), and handsome husband is quite a dab hand at getting them going, and early every morning he goes out to the woods and soon returns with some logs and kindling, holding his chopper triumphantly (clearly something he learnt at scouts)!

Once outside it is all a very different story and its completely freezing, and although I do have some warm coats, sheepskin lined, tweed and a sumptuous Ralph Lauren camel and cashmere piece, they just aren't keeping me as protected from the chill that I feel they should be, and I certainly don't want to spend the winter months indoors for fear of frostbite every time I step outside.

I was feeling quite disheartened as I stomped into town wearing so many layers of clothing and handsome husbands Loro Piana overcoat, I felt I might topple over with the weight of it all, when I spotted a fox heading towards the bakers. When I say fox, I mean a coat, a glorious specimen of fur. Now I know there may be someone now reading this who thinks it abhorrent to even consider such a thing, wearing a dead animal, but really when a girl is as despondent as this there simply is no choice, and I will be quite bold now and tell you that I completely adore fur, I think it was an introduction at an early age from my Grandmother, who's boyfriend was a furrier and she had what might be considered now quite a scandalous collection of fur attire, and I have been a devotee every since.

So I rushed home (not easy under all that weight) and began my search for the flawless fur. I was a little side-tracked in this quest by the lure of an antiques fair in one of the larger towns close by. At previous fairs I have often examined stalls trading in fur coats, jackets, scarves and hats, and have repeatedly been captivated by the gleaming, sleek assortments on offer, however, this was not one of those occasions, and the furs I did see were a sorry, sad looking limp excuse for the animal/s it had once been. Back in the haven of home, I reached for my bible of hope, and font of all knowledge on things elegant, Vogue. I poked the fire and began to leaf through the glossy pages and was transfixed almost instantly by a magnificent beast from Fendi, aah of course, the Italians always know exactly how to look understated when nobody else can pull it off. They are easily spotted in cities around the world, swishing around in their minks, foxes, sables et all, and with the obligatory sunglasses, suntans and dark swarthy looks and that's only the men.

After a phone call with a delightful Italian chap in Sloane Street, who knew exactly what I desired, I am glad to report that I am no longer remotely chilly when I venture out into the world, and handsome husband is so taken with the fur that he hasn't been in such a hurry to rush out with his chopper recently and prefers to stroke my wild animal.....If you fancy a furry friend seek out Fendi or if English is more your thing there is always Hockley.

Where I seal my fete!

I know I have been accepted here in my tiny town, as I received a personal invitation for the annual charity Coffee Morning, hand delivered by the woman who is the chair of the committee. Naturally, I invited her in for tea and (homemade) biscuits, and took her on a tour of the house, which thankfully had just been polished and scrubbed by my wonderful help here. I could tell she was eyeing up the space to see whether it might be suitable to host next years event, the giveaway was when she whipped out her tape measure, saying she was interested in the size of the sisal rug in our drawing room!

We chatted for a while about the town, the schools, the children, the new interiors shop, and the problems of keeping pets safe when fireworks are exploding, then she sprang it on me, would I consider joining the committee. I didn't want to rush into this as I hate to devote myself to anything until I have checked all avenues, and there may be an alternative charity group that I should be steering towards, so I stalled for time, saying that I was just finishing off with my responsibilities for the various charities I was involved with in London, and as soon as I handed these over, I would certainly be looking to become absorbed locally in charity work. This did the trick, and she left with a smile and wave, and a fistful of my biscuits she said her children would adore at tea-time - likely story.
The day of the coffee morning arrived, and fortunately it wasn't raining, which meant I wouldn't need to wear wellies, although I do possess a rather luxurious leather lined Le Chameau pair, they are not exactly elegant, I've never seen a pair of wellies that are, even my mothers Gucci ones, which do come close, but rubber is rubber and there is only so much you can do with it for your feet. It was important to be dressed correctly, overdressing might be considered ostentatious and jeans, although my current cherished pair are J Brand, might be thought scruffy. This was the ideal opportunity for me to bring out my latest purchase from Joseph, a pair of highly flattering trousers the same colour of my favourite chocolate bar, teamed effortlessly with a super soft Pringle pistachio coloured cable knit long cashmere coatigan (the new word of the season). I appraised my choice and concluded I looked very 'Bond Street on a Monday'.
Off I toddled with my Anya Hindmarch basket and arrived at a very beautiful house at the foot of the lane where the event was being held, hosted by a tall, handsome woman who was completely charming and who very kindly guided me around the rooms, introducing me to so many (mostly) ladies, there was no way I could possibly remember all their names. Her home is enchanting, and this was emphasised by the array of gleaming and sparkling goods on offer, all being sold in aid of charity. I began to make my way around the stalls, filling up my basket as I went with some sensational gifts, food, cards, clothes and jewellery, all of which was quite unexpected as I didn't anticipate that I would actually want to buy anything, and I was terribly impressed. These ladies were not amateur arts and crafters, they were the real deal, and after chatting to a few of the stall holders it transpires that many of these ladies have thriving businesses, and some supply to the very boutiques and stores I left behind in London. I thought it was very clever of the committee to invite all these marvellous traders and expressed this to one of them, whereupon, in hushed tones, she intimated that the hostess had a real struggle with the chair lady who had been completely against introducing items that people would genuinely want to buy, and felt it should remain very much a home made (not very exciting) affair. Does this not defeat the whole point of a coffee morning for charity?
Once I had filled my basket, and my arm was beginning to ache, I set off in search of coffee, this was after all a coffee morning, and sure enough in the hub of the house, the kitchen, I found a place to park my trim bum and plonked my basket down next to me, and there she was, the chair lady, holding court around the kitchen island, tucking in to more biscuits. I listened to the polite chatter and tinkle of laughter and was then asked if I had made any purchases - I began to pull out my acquisitions and told my attentive audience that this was by far the best charity event I had been to since leaving London, and how refreshing to find things that were not only perfect gifts, but were of the highest quality, and how very brilliant the chair lady had been in getting all the sellers on board, and how lovely it would be to do it all again next year, and perhaps she should consider a summer event too.
My fate is now sealed, as after this exchange, several of the ladies agreed with me, and insisted I join them in organising the whole thing, particularly as they had heard how large and beautiful my garden is, and that it might just be the perfect venue for a summer charity fete. Oh dear, how will I explain all this to handsome husband, perhaps if I promise a beer tent it might placate him....

Fun and Games in The Kitchen

We have recently had a pretty packed house here, and at times, I have felt as if I am running a small and efficient B&B, for Londoners wishing to enjoy some country air, and teenage boys looking for a bed to crash in and copious amounts of filling food to cram into their ever open mouths.

I adore having friends to stay and enjoy preparing for their arrival. I have a finely tuned routine to ensure every comfort is considered and each guest feels all their needs are catered for. Firstly I deal with the guest suite, making sure the beds have newly laundered linen, all crisp and fresh smelling. Delicately scented flowers, and an array of magazines to suit all tastes! Soft and fluffy large towels, none of those teeny ones that just about cover your assets. Several divine soaps, shampoos, and oils to soak in or if a shower is more your thing, some delicious fragrant shower gels, Jo Malone or Miller Harris, naturally.

Once I am satisfied with my work in the boudoir, I then begin the real domestic goddess part, in fact, this is my favourite bit. The Food. Oh my goodness, this is where I can really go to town and hone my cooking skills to perfection. This is where (I won't be my normal modest self here) I shine, frankly speaking, and I'm not afraid to say so. I can spend days preparing, beginning with the menu (you know how I love a list), then the shopping and choosing of produce from the fabulous host of gourmet outlets here, which often involves some tasting, and slurping of goods on offer. Then I set to work creating gastronomic ecstasy, total pleasure for the taste buds.

The guests arrive, and are warmly greeted by the dog and are given a tour by the eager kids, settled into their rooms (which I'm thinking of naming after previous owners for ease - that will be The Dashwood Suite, or The Charrington Rooms), and after all that activity are settled into a comfortable chair and given a strong drink, before dinner.

Now, I don't know about you, but I prefer canapes to hors d'oeuvres myself, as although they could be considered quite formal I find the opposite, as food is passed around for people to share, and as we are not seated at the dining table, this allows for free movement to chat to the other guests of choice. Nothing over the top you understand, just a little mouthful of smoked salmon, or my distinctive smoked trout terrine or even (if feeling the need for hearty sustenance) my out of this world sausage rolls (I have references from a Mr Anderson on these).

Dinner is served. This always runs smoothly, as I have timed all parts to perfection, and everything is ready exactly when it needs to be. My guests are all happy where they are seated and nothing gives me any more delight than seeing them all tuck in with gusto. Wines are chosen by handsome husband and he always gets it spot on and they blend rather than interupting the flavours of my beautifully cooked food.

However, I have been aware of a small problem, I suppose you might call it a wardrobe malfunction. Ofcourse I like to dress appropriately for dinner, and always like to maintain a polished appearance, but this has been somewhat thwarted by my very basic apron, which just wasn't adding anything to my look. So I remedied this with a little retail research to find an apron fit for a woman of taste, and I have come up trumps and now I am Miss Glamourous in the kitchen, with a vast confectionery of aprons to choose from, and handsome husband thought they were so sexy he made a suggestion which made me blush the same colour as my strawberry moose! Now you too can get some kitchen action by checking out Haute Hostess Aprons and if you are feeling really outrageous The Modern Courtesan - enjoy!!

I Shall Go To The Ball

What a hoot I have been having, a whirl of social activities that have left me quite frazzled. There have been drinks with some fabulous hearty boozers, dinners with some gourmet experts, lunches with elegant ladies, soiree launches with herds of smiling faces and finally the icing on the cake, the cherry on the top, The Hunt Ball.

It has been years, literally, since I last attend any of event of this nature, though the Tory fundraiser a couple of years back, with the Stones tribute band was, I suppose, quite close though nowhere nearly as formal, and I suspect the dancing was slightly better at the Hunt Ball.

This was to be a major attire logistical nightmare, as two outfit changes were required. Why, I hear you question. Two events in one evening, firstly a function at the school where the invitation stated lounge suit, and then on to the Hunt Ball. Now it may come as a surprise, but I, and as far as I am aware, none of the women I know own such a thing as a 'lounge suit', and even if I did it would certainly not be suitable for the Ball, where the invitation states 'black tie' (far more helpful), that's a longish frock for us ladies.

For the sake of simplicity and ease I felt it sensible to ensure that whatever I chose to wear to each event required the same (close your eyes chaps) lingerie, so all I had to do would be to slip out of one costume and into the other with little fuss. So all there was left to do was to decide which two dresses it would be.

I scrutinized my dresses with care, knowing my decision would be judged by others who were seasoned Ball frequenters, women who had mastered the fine art of Hunt Ball attire. I felt under enormous pressure, but being made of sturdy stuff and feeling secure in the knowledge that I possess an elegant assortment of garments, I began my selection, slowly and calmly discarding (in my mind, not on the floor) anything inappropriate, until I had reached the moment of clarity, two dresses made for each other a perfect fusion. For the school do, a chic clever little dress from Tibi, of green and cream silk, short but not mini, scoop neck and long arms, so not too much flesh on display, and the for ball a dreamy emerald Roberto Cavalli long rich velvet dress, which floats and glides as you move.

So we departed for our evening of fun and frolic in our crystal carriage (the old merc), waving goodbye to our flock. Handsome husband looked gorgeous in his lounge suit and we sauntered into the main hall of the school clutching hands. I glanced about me and felt completely secure knowing that my dress was perfect, perhaps a little fashionable but actually I didn't mind as standards must be maintained. We were entertained with some light music, some extremely palatable canapes, some sensational fireworks, and chatted with various convivial parents. Then it was time for the big change. We had planned to do this in our eldest's dorm, but unfortunately we had lost track of time and the doors to his house had been firmly bolted. I will be honest when I tell you (just between us), this is not the first time I have found myself in this sort of fix, and I knew exactly what action to take. Very simply we would change in the car. This is not as straightforward as one might think and changing in and out of dresses is far easier standing up than sitting down, so I wobbled about outside the car with the door open and handsome husband holding up a jacket to shield me from prying eyes, as I slipped out of one dress and into the other. Gosh, I felt like a teenage part girl all over again as I shimmied myself into my emerald piece of luxury.

It was well worth it, handsome husband said I looked ravishing, and I did dazzle all evening and my dress was much admired and commented on. We met some thoroughly engaging people including a most interesting woman who trades in fine wines, though I did find it difficult to concentrate on everything she was saying as I was so distracted by a thick slick of incredibly shimmering blue eye shadow she was wearing which gave the impression she had been made up by a soho drag queen. I did see some some extraordinary sights, voluptuous ladies squeezed into dresses that left little guessing as to what was underneath, and I am quite sure those groom lads and stable boys explored all the possibilities on offer. Gentlemen with spurs (careful where you tread), and one gentleman that must have been 105 speaking directly to a woman's large breasts. The dancing was spectacular, with legs flying and arms flaying in all directions as people grooved to great 80's classics.

We arrived home in the early hours and I definitely felt as if I had been driven home in a pumpkin, but at least I hadn't lost a glass slipper from Lanvin, and my dress most certainly had not turned into rags, and I had brought my Prince Charming home.