TO THE MANOR BORN

I know you’re all waiting with baited breath for the report of my trip to Spain, however you’ll have to hang on. I am exhausted after the upgrade to the new Wayne-Bough Towers, which followed hot on the heels of the K.N.O.B.’s resounding triumph at the All-Europe Oompah Championships in Seville and an unexpected encounter with an old acquaintance. And as for Seville itself – what a fabulous town.

The move was exhausting, as I couldn’t run to Pickford’s this time and did it all myself in a hired mini Ford Transit. I’m sitting among my packing cases trying to remember which box the corkscrew is in. Fish knives are of no use whatsoever in a situation like this.

The new "manor" as my friends from Sarf London would say, is so Moi. After the hustle and bustle of downtown, where the invasive racket of police sirens and nightclubs taught me to lipread, as there was no other way of hearing the television, I am now in a very posh suburb where the early morning silence is broken only by the sound of birds tweeting and the occasional muted purr of a Mercedes or BMW passing by.

A large number of the denizens of this part of town are mature. Very mature. In fact it would not be cruel to say we are a stone’s throw from God’s Waiting Room. You can tell by the number of doctors and pharmacies in my street alone that there are a large number of locals who have passed their three score and ten. The younger residents are mostly well-heeled couples with a 4x4 and a brace of spoilt brats, and four pairs of green wellies in the hall in diminishing sizes. Even the children wear Barbour jackets. However, someone in my building has strange visitors. The other night a motorcycle was parked outside my house, painted in leopardskin print! For one horrible moment I thought Vi Hornblower had taken up TT racing.

The previous neighbourhood was very multicultural, which I greatly enjoyed due to my extensive knowledge of Africa. My neighbour Mrs Bondongwe went into raptures of delight when I took round a tray of iced fancies by way of introducing myself, and I was often invited round for a mug of palm wine and some plantain chips. We compared head wrappers, and she passed on to me her old copies of “Ovation” magazine (the West African answer to “Hello”). The new surroundings, although very pleasant, are considerably less rich in colours and smells. It’s not that we don’t have immigrants, but if I tell you the local Arab is Lebanese, you will get the picture. There are a lot of non-Belgians in this part of town, but they are mostly affluent Eurocrats, with a high proportion of Brits. Hence the local paper shops stock the Daily Mail and the Sunday Times, and the local tea rooms know how to serve a proper cup of tea with the appropriate doily. I feel I am back where I belong, readers. This feels like the sort of place where a girl can get a decent blue rinse and the local supermarket never runs out of Duchy Originals. And there is the added bonus of having Aunty M and Scouse Doris as neighbours, if I ever need to borrow a cup of La Perruche brown sugar lumps.

I ventured out on Sunday morning sporting my Hermès scarf tied in a turban and my outsize sunglasses, looking not so much like a Polish cleaning lady, as a celeb trying not-quite-hard-enough to go unnoticed. I felt I ought to be carrying a small Yorkshire terrier poking its head out of a Gucci bag to complete the look.