I am back, positively triumphant my dears, from dropping off the little ones at school and dealing with Sally Farquarson. I was a teensy bit naughty about it, I admit, but I think in the grand racing formbook of life, Sally will be marked as "fell at the first" on this one, which is immensely satisfying.
Sally always gets to school dead on ten past eight of course - her obsessive-compulsive disorder is still alive and well, although she is much better at controlling some of its more ludicrous manifestations, like that bizarre insistence that there must only be an even number of items on her plate (although I still garnish everything liberally with caviar when she comes to dinner, just for the amusement of watching her panicked surreptitious counting of all those lovely little black balls - aren't I a horror?). Anyway. So I made sure to get to school just as she was getting out of that funny little car she drives, with Lavinia. She blinded me with her tic-tac smile (I swear it gets brighter every week, makes the whites of her eyes look positively yellow in comparison, someone ought to tell her), and I told her how marvellous she was looking, which flummoxed her somewhat. After dumping the children, I hung back and fiddled with Lara's gym kit for a bit, to give her a head start back to her car. Then, (and this is the naughty bit), at the door of the school I hollered down the drive to her "Oh! Sally, I meant to mention - Lavinia's sleepover is a no-go I'm afraid. The Wales' have told me that they've promised the Wiltshires that they'll turn up to their bash that evening, so I think we are going to have to break up our lovely evening at home and all make an appearance. Such a bore, but I think we ought to have Lavinia another time. Bye!"
It couldn't have been more fabulous, because the drive was packed with people, including Beetle Carter-Jones who was half-in, half-out of her Cayenne and absolutely agog - she is such mates with Louisa Wiltshire and I know she'll go back and repeat my comments verbatim. Louisa will be spitting!
Must dash, I've got to phone Ralph Winterthur and book him and his wife up for the 19th. I need to do some digging and find out a bit about him, it is just maddening not knowing a thing of what he is about, I don't know whether he's someone I ought to be inviting to dinner and getting Rupes to suck up to, or someone who just gets a cheery wave when I'm walking Orca. I usually have such a wonderful natural instinct for these things, but bloody Americans just jam my radar. Too trying.