THE LAST WALTZ

It's my last day of this extended visit to my homeland, and last chance to flex my credit card in the shops while the sales are on, so you'll excuse my brevity. I have to find an outfit for a posh French wedding I am invited to in a couple of weeks. A little something in eau-de-nil silk would be perfect. Magic knickers firmly in place, I am heading for a factory outlet in Oxfordshire. I have bought a spare suitcase as I fully intend to fill it up before stepping on the Eurostar tomorrow.

Tippler is one of the last three in the Big Blogger House, and you must all vote for someone else to be evicted. I think that's how it works, anyway. You have to go to this link: http://timtim.typepad.com/bigblogger2007

Best place for him, in my opinion.

COUNTRY LIFE

Hornblower Heights

I write from deepest Bucks, where I am sojourning in the rural retreat of the Hornblowers, which is happily not under water. Not so lucky Vera Slapp in unfortunate Oxon, who had to be rescued through her bedroom window by the fire brigade. It took some time to get her out, as she was trying her hardest to pull the nice young fireman in, shouting that her knickers were wet, which gives you an idea how high the water was.

Hornblower Heights is so rural that the sheep from the neighbouring field wander in to watch Emmerdale on the TV. Violet is settling into English country life as if to the manor born. She strides through the village in her green wellies and Barbour jacket, shotgun over her arm, greeting the locals with a cheery 'Air Hair Lair!" They're naturally suspicious of strangers in these remote parts, but greet her with a shy mutter of "Far Kin Tuffs", which is a local greeting traditionally used to pay respects to the local squire, and obviously referring to the distant kinship that linked the liege lord to his villagers in the old days when he exercised his 'droit de seigneur' on the village maids! I have a suspicion Violet is planning on reviving the tradition, having seen her flirting with the muscular young Ukrainian gardener in the herbaceous border.

I have enjoyed my visit to Blighty (and mustn't forget Ireland, which has changed my drinking habits forever - Guinness is certainly good for you!) despite, or perhaps because of, the appalling weather. I have seen the Dunkirk spirit rise to the occasion, and am proud to say that we are at our best in a crisis. Listening to Jeremy Vine on the car radio, I have heard countless stories of hotels converting their bar and lounge areas into makeshift dormitories for people stranded, youngsters wading through waist-high water to rescue the elderly, and a lovely story about four strapping Polish chaps who stripped down to their underpants to help move a car that was immobilized by water. I'm sorry I missed that.

Still it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. The fashion wellie boot industry is booming, especially after Dame Shirley Bassey famously modelled a pair of pink ones under her evening dress at Glasto. I have always been a green wellie girl myself but am rather tempted by something a bit more jazzy. I'm not sure they'd really be suitable for the office though.

This weekend, after some last-minute shopping, I shall stagger aboard the Eurostar laden with bacon and sausages, pork pies and Duchy Originals, DVDs, books, magazines, and sundries. It is always good to get in touch with one's roots every now and again. Which reminds me, I must book an appointment with the hairdresser on my return.

TROY TEMPEST WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

It hasn't stopped raining (with one or two exceptions) since the end of May. We are now past the mid-July mark. It rained last Sunday. St Swithin's Day. That means we've got another 40 days of it. Which takes us to the end of August. If I hadn't gone to Seville with the K.N.O.B., I wouldn't have got to paint my toenails at all this year!

I may move to the top of a mountain. I think whatever happens I shouldn't make long-term plans in Belgium. The Low Countries are going to join Atlantis sooner or later and then take root in popular mythology. There will be episodes of Dr Who about the Search for the Lost Kingdom of Belgium. It will become the stuff of legend. Picture the scene:

Young boy: But grandad, Belgium's just a fairy tale! It never really existed.

Grandad: No son, you're wrong. There really was once a country where the streets were paved with chocolate and all the shops were closed on Sundays, and the people in the north spoke a language that has been lost, and only a few old schoolteachers in South Africa and parts of Indonesia can decipher the ancient texts.

Young boy: Ha ha! Shops closed on Sunday! That's just too far-fetched, grandad. Did I tell you we're going to Mars with the school this year?

The mythology of the future will recount that the Mannekin Pis was a little boy who drank too much Leffe and couldn't stop weeing, and drowned his fellow countrymen. A little Dutch boy put his finger in the dyke to try to stop the flood spilling over into Holland, but failed and was washed away in a tsunami of Belgian urine. Even Tintin couldn't save them.

Ready for anything in a Burberry's raincoat, Snowy!

BORIS FOR MAYOR!

Boris Johnson is going to run for Mayor of London! I for one have already pledged my support. Despite my mildly left-leaning inclinations, I have always been fond of Boris, with his boyish good looks and his mop of Teutonic blond hair (although his ancestry is anything but Teutonic). I think he would make a jolly good Mayor of London. First of all, I don't think he's half the buffoon that he pretends to be, as can be clearly seen from his editorship of The Spectator, several publications, his TV documentary about Rome and his appearances on "Have I got news for you", although I might suggest that he tone down the Beano-type image a little during his campaign. Secondly, he brings a little humour into politics. And what's wrong with that? Don't get me wrong, I think Ken Livingstone has done great things for London, and the newt population have much to be grateful for. But two terms is enough. If he was elected for a third term it's certain you would find Ken sinking into the delusion of absolute power, behaving like Elton John and getting exposed for some sordid financial scandal, and before you know it we'd have him in Brussels as Commissioner for Trade or something. So it's in the interests of democracy as well as of Europe to turf Ken out now. As Ian Hislop once said, Boris is the man to lead Britain forward into the 17th century. Read his opinion piece in the Evening Standard dated 16th July, on his website, which might give you a better picture of this self-confessed toff. Boris is not class-conscious, whatever people might think. As long as you understand the rules of rugby and cricket, and can stand up in a punt without spilling your Pimms, you're as good as anyone.

With my enviable connections in the higher echelons of Westminster (Imelda, the Dowager Duchess of Southend, still has a council flat on the Peabody estate, and those bin men do talk) I have managed to sneak a preview of Boris's proposed 10-point plan for the capital:

1. Anyone displaying mawkish sentimentality to be exiled to Liverpool or Portsmouth. Should a member of the Royal Family be suddenly extinguished in a car crash, a one-minute silence and the wearing of black tie on day of funeral to be only exterior signs of grief, accompanied by stiff upper lip. Manly sentimentality allowed, however, if England lose at rugger or cricket.

2. Decimal system to be abolished, reintroduce pounds shillings and pence. Cripes, might even bring back the sovereign while I'm at it.

3. City of London management to wear bowler hat and carry furled umbrella in winter, straw boaters and stripey blazers in the summer. Ladies: hats and gloves will be worn at all times.

4. The 2012 Oxford-Cambridge boatrace to be an Olympic event.

5. Bendy buses to be abolished. Routemaster to be brought back into service. Cheery Cockney bus conductors to be recruited, to shout "Plenty more room up top!" and ding the bell with gusto. Think about bringing back horse-drawn Omnibus.

6. The O2 Dome to be renamed the W.G. Grace Indoor Cricket Stadium. Cricket new Olympic event? Note to have a word with Spliffy.

7. Beer to be served at room temperature. Pimms to be on tap in all taverns in the town. Reintroduce licensing hours? Golly, better think about that one. Binge drinking to be frowned upon. Unless England win at rugby or cricket.

8. Holidays to be declared during Cowes Week and Henley Regatta. And Glyndebourne. And Ascot. Wimbledon. Badminton Horse Trials. And the Chelsea Flower Show. Oh dash it, all work to stop from June to August.

9. Fox hunting to be allowed in Hyde Park on the 3rd Sunday of each month.

10. Children under 4' tall to be allowed to take Saturday jobs as chimney sweeps.

Yes, Boris is my kind of fellow! And I'm not just saying that because I'm staying in Vera Slapp's house not a million miles from Henley, where he is MP. Now that Tony has gone, and I wouldn't bet my pearls on Gordon getting in again at the next election, maybe it's time to take a breather from the hectic pace of modernisation, and get back in touch with the thwack of willow on leather. But let's not venture into Boris's personal life.

Being but an occasional visitor to my hometown for the last 30 years, I am discovering all sorts of exciting things in London - both new and old. The "gherkin" (or "suppository" as I call it) is an exciting new addition to the city skyline. In my day, the Post Office Tower was the height of architectural daring! The City of London has been quite transformed, I drove through it last Sunday and didn't recognize the place. But then you come across something extremely old and enduring such as the Tower of London, and it makes you smile and go "aaaah!". A bit like Boris, really.

I was not terribly familiar with the East End of London until I renewed my acquaintance with my old hoofing buddy Bette Noire, who now lives in what used to be Kray territory. In the middle of the eco park off Grove Road in Bow, surrounded by luxury apartments, is The Palm Tree, a traditional London pub where the spirit of Reggie and Ronnie lives on, and which captures the real essence of London. It is essentially a jazz pub on weekends, and hence I felt quite at home, the average age of the clientele being only slightly older than myself. This is not to say they have one foot in the grave - far from it! We were chatted up by a sprightly pensioner who flirted outrageously, danced a vigorous jive with Bette, and then got up on stage and sang like Nat 'King' Cole. In jazz circles I find age is not an issue, anyone can join in as long as you love music, and unlike rock, the older you get the more venerated you are. Anyone who was young during the war or the golden years just after is held in high esteem in the jazz community, as not only will they know all the words to "You rascal you" but they will know how to do the hand jive.

People come from all over London and beyond to hear the music and experience the atmosphere of this lively and good-natured venue. A bunch of young Ruperts and Camillas in their bowties and ballgowns, no doubt having been to a society wedding, stood nursing their drinks and tapping their feet nervously at first, rather like Prescott and Mandelson at the Blair government inauguration party, probably terrified they were about to be dismembered, pickpocketed or at the very least spoken to in a Cockerney accent that they would not understand, but by the end of the evening they were jiving away and singing "You're no-one 'till somebody loves you" with everyone else.

Here's a sample of a typical Saturday night at The Palm Tree, obviously taken on a mobile phone camera by someone who was enjoying themself. Never mind the quality, feel the jellied eels. (Pat will be the only one who knows all the words!). Take it away, Gladys!

CRAIC CITY

I arrived safely back in Blighty yesterday, taunting the devil by travelling on Friday 13th (superstitious but rebellious, me). Ryanair was at least on time both ways, the airplane was new and enough leg room to wriggle your ankles. However I would only travel on a budget airline again departing from another airport. Gatwick is a nightmare, heaving with hoi polloi heading for such hotspots as "Pelermo" (sic) and Sharm el Sheikh. By the time you have added on the cost of checked-in luggage (I'm sorry, I just cannot travel with something the size of my makeup bag - you never know when you are going to need a ballgown) and the exorbitant cost of getting to Gatwick and back, you might as well have paid full whack and gone Aer Lingus.

Ireland was entirely enjoyable, despite almost constant rain (which just gave me an excuse to buy another umbrella!). I stayed in a delightful olde-worlde B&B Acorn House, at the bottom of St Patrick's Hill, very close to the town centre. There's something about highly patterned carpet and the smell of bacon drifting up the staircase in the morning that takes me back to my childhood, staying in guest houses on the Kent coast. The room was small but adequate and spotlessly clean, and even I can live without satellite TV and a mini-bar. Acorn House is extremely well run by Englishman Charlie and his Irish wife Jackie, and a full Irish breakfast every morning was hard to resist. So I didn't.

Cork has a number of things in common with Brussels. The main streets, for example, were once a river, as witnessed by the houses with steps leading up to the front doors. The river Lee runs under part of Patrick Street. Like Brussels, and in common with all Irish towns, Cork is in theory bilingual - street names and signposts are in Irish and English - but in reality everybody speaks English. After a fashion. The local brogue is so strong that I thought my taxi driver was speaking to his control centre in Gaelic, until I heard him say "Ilton John" and realized he was giving me a potted "What's On" for the week. Cork is de facto trilingual now, as I heard Polish spoken more than Irish. I counted three or four Polish shops, perused Polish and Lithuanian language local newspapers in W.H.Smith, and even the butcher in the English Market has labelled his produce in Polish as well as English! A number of Poles are employed in the construction industry, which is a delicious irony, in this country which lost a generation or two of their young men to English building sites.

Traditional Irish music is played in one or other of Cork's many hostelries most nights of the week, and I spent a pleasant couple of evenings sampling the local liquid specialities whilst listening to some lively Celtic tunes. Although the musicians and instruments changed according to the venue, I saw the same chap playing the spoons everywhere. He appeared quite intently focussed on playing his cutlery, but when he stood up it was clear he had over-indulged a little on the black stuff. He engaged me in conversation as I was taking in the evening air during a break in the music, with the traditional Irish greeting: "Begorra fag?" We exchanged pleasantries and discussed the merits of various kinds of spoons for musical purposes. I do like to see people using the correct cutlery. I encountered him again the following night in another tavern, where he had obviously been imbibing, and was having trouble remaining in a vertical position. He had that wonderful ability to dive headlong towards the carpet without spilling a drop of his pint, which is one of the key events in the Gaelic Games. He remembered me - when his eyes eventually focussed - and gave me a broad Irish grin. "Da fruit gorl!" he exclaimed, before sliding sideways off his stool. I must say, thanks to my hat, people tend to remember me! In Cork you will find 'good craic' as they say in a number of hostelries, including Sin E and The Corner Place in Coburg Street on the north side, An Bodhran on Oliver Plunkett Street, Clancy's on Princes Street, and the Slainte Bar in Market Lane off Patrick Street.

The inhabitants of Cork appear quite comfortably off, the number of smart shops, 4x4 cars, and East European immigrant workers testifying to the reality of the Celtic Tiger economy. There was the occasional swaying Irishman talking lovingly to his can of Caffrey's in the street, but the beggars were quite obviously not Irish. The locals were instead dining out in style in the many smart restaurants, the smartest of which is perhaps Greene's on MacCurtain Street, where I dined on my last evening in Ireland. I took a pre-prandial on the deck overlooking a 40' high waterfall before proceeding into one of the spacious dining rooms where the efficient (and mostly French) staff looked after me royally.

I used to be a little self-conscious about dining alone, in the early days after Harold's demise, but now I'm quite adept, and I would even say I prefer it. Dining solo gives one the opportunity to read, text or ogle the waiter's bottom without feeling obliged to entertain or pretend to be entertained, and one can appreciate the food without any distractions. In fact, I am heartily glad that I don't have to put up with Harold's silliness at the table any more. For those of you who may still find it a little difficult facing a roomfull of diners, I offer you a couple of tips. Firstly, if you are lucky enough to be short sighted, take off your glasses - you should still be able to see what you are eating, but you can't see all the other diners sniggering and pointing at you. Secondly, take a notebook and pen, and make notes during your meal, occasionally peering at the menu. The staff will assume you are a distinguished food writer and you will get right royal treatment.

This trick worked a treat at Greene's where the young waitress presented me with a quite unsolicited appetizer while I perused the menu. I thought she said it was a "chilled red pepper and tomato Bloody Mary", but after a couple of mouthfuls it became obvious that she had said "chilli" not "chilled". I pondered the pan seared loin of rabbit wrapped in Serrano ham with parsnips and honey mash, caramelized figs, beetroot jus and sage and parmesan tuile, but decided there was far too much going on in that plate, and chose a simple dish of medium-rare duck breast on saute potatoes, shallot and girolle mushrooms timbale, melted foie gras and Rossini sauce. It was beautfully presented and quite delicious, with a glass of Merlot. The restaurant manager came over to check that everything was to my liking, and, having inspected his trim French derriere earlier on, I assured him it was. Instead of a dessert I took a delicious Irish coffee well laced with whiskey, and after paying the very reasonable bill I wandered out into the soft evening drizzle through a pleasant alcoholic haze, feeling quite at one with my heritage. I sang "Danny Boy" softly to my can of Murphy's, and knew I had come home.