The youngest member of our dinner party on Good Friday night, but one that lives in her own private spotlight, was "N", daughter of the Prime Minister of a small Middle-Eastern country that was famously invaded not so long ago by a bloke with a bristly moustache, black beret and RayBan aviators. Indeed said aggressor had her uncle tortured and terminated.
"N" is a loquacious fourteen-year-old would-be adult with eyes like beads of black jade set within a beaming fleshy mask. Her mother is Australian and her father's third concurrent spouse. That she's comprehensively spoiled goes without saying, but she doesn't really act it, though it's clear she's generally accustomed to the company of sycophants.
Buzzed up by The Wine Society's Malbec I decided to see what would happen if I led the conversation just a little out of the reach of this precocious child. I had an unwitting accomplice in the Australian girl sitting next to me, who had reason enough that night to want to make a favourable impression, and talking a lot about herself was perhaps the best way she knew how to do this.
"I'm lost" declared "N" a couple of times before excusing herself from the table, as if we were all collectively charged with ensuring that this didn't happen.
In truth the Middle East needs more girls like "N" and I'm sure that in a decade or so it will be a privilege indeed to know her. She is an undoubted expert on matters equestrian having learned to ride at the age of three. She swapped camel driving stories with D. She also told him that her family travels in the Emir's jet in which the passengers sit in a circle on a carpet to dine. Her passion for bacon sandwiches was also quite endearing.
Outside London it is still the presence or absence of sunshine that determines whether the ambient look and feel is end of winter or beginning of spring. The pool covers will stay on for another month. There's a large leaf-filled puddle in the middle of them, which the crows are using as a bath-tub. Above and around the high trees behind the house glide two pairs of red kites for the first time this year, seemingly intent on nest-building.
On Easter Sunday D and I went for a quick drink before the Boat Race at a pub called The Stone Kiln in the village of Frilsham recently acquired by Mike Robinson, a.k.a. The Safari Chef. He has that easy-going, minor public school charm and no doubt so will his restaurant and its future clientele. V has never been terribly impressed with his televised cooking which looks like an excuse for inviting yourself to dinner at a series of smart White Mischief type ranches in East Africa. But he has invested nearly £750,000 in this property, which lies at the end of a lane and can probably expect little or no passing traffic. The restaurant is yet to open and there's a TV crew on site filming a documentary about Robinson's progress. Some of them have been staying down at the farm. Parked right outside when we arrived was a WWII US Army Jeep complete with netted helmets and mounted machine gun.
We ended up lunching at The Bull in Stanford Dingley, which has had an annexe with guest rooms constructed since I was last there, which gives it an appearance from the rear of a university hostel. Apparently the owners played hardball with the council, persuading them to grant planning permission by threatening to close up and convert the property into a private residence thereby ending 500 years of continued service as a country inn.
Cambridge were rubbish.
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