“I have a theory that there is something in the Italian landscape which inspires even the most stolid nature to romance.”

Charging two euros to visit the Trevi Fountain? Whatever next? Coin-operated pigeons?

I’ve asked the Prime Minister to pick up some chinoiserie trinkets for me whilst he’s on his overseas junket. Nothing flamboyant, merely enough to alarm the insurance man.

For Robbie Burns Night, I shall wear tweed, recite verse, and treat the haggis as one treats modern art: respectfully, but at a distance.

I too briefly considered standing for the Gorton and Denton by-election, until the prospect of canvassing in a sensible shoe put paid to the whole affair.

The last refuge of the defeated. 🧐

Prue departs the Bake Off. I do not seek the apron but should the nation require a steady hand and a perfectly judged macaron, I would be willing to be persuaded.

If one is annexing territories this season, I should like first refusal on a quiet corner of Florence in which one may disapprove of things at leisure.

Quite so. I take copious notes, yet still feel under-rehearsed. 🧐

What a year! And it’s only January the 3rd — I’m already in search of a fainting couch and an understanding butler.

The Honeychurches claim they were “at church” during today’s Louvre jewellery heist. A convincing alibi, spoiled only by Freddy jingling like a crystal chandelier.

One suspects the sentiment is more meteorological than metaphysical. 🧐

I very much doubt this will be a good year for the roses. #StormEowyn

To take Lucy’s mind off the encroaching storm, I’ve arranged an impromptu Christmas soirée. The programme includes such classics as ‘In a Bleak Mid-Eager’, ‘Good Mr Beebe Looked Out’ and ‘Away in a Pensione’.🎄

And on line one, we have a call from Charlotte in Tunbridge Wells who has a question for Mr Wallace regarding middle-class women of a certain age.

Cecil Vyse, Room with a View

Advent—a season of waiting and yearning. How intimately I understand the feeling!