Wednesday, 26 July 2017



 One very important aspect of diplomatic etiquette is, of course, the bread and butter thank you letter. Also known as the day after letter. Ideally this should be written (for the English) on deckle-edged personalised notepaper in a subtle shade of white, pale cream or something equally uncontroversial, with matching and lined envelope. Of necessity, one should mention how warm and charming were one’s hosts and their beautiful residence, how intellectually stimulating and extraordinarily witty the conversation, how innovative the menu and succulent the food, how wonderful it was to meet old friends and make some new ones, how fortunate one had considered oneself to be seated next to two such enthralling conversationalists as those to one’s left and right……You get the picture.
Traditions, however, differ greatly.
Italians, for example, rarely bother to set pen to paper at all. They prefer to express their thanks via a phone call. Thus, if you are an Italian hostess and wish to achieve anything at all the day after giving a dinner party, you are well advised to Be Unavailable for the entire 24 hours and just leave the answering machine on.
I was feeling particularly grateful for this solution just the other day for it permitted me to leave a succinct but hopefully elegant little thank-you message for a particularly voluble friend who had been using me as a sauf-douleur for her matrimonial woes for the past six months. Her temporary absence saved me, at a conservative estimate, a good forty minutes of sympathetic listening. I had reckoned without her most kindly ringing me back to say thank you for my thank you.
The call came just as I was applying my left shoulder, (the one with the torn ligament), to a rusty gate in an attempt to get through it without letting three large and very excited thoroughbred horses escape to the freedom for which they were fighting. Underfoot was a puddle the size of Lake Ontario and a muddy bog which needed some careful circumventing if I were to remain upright and capable of heaving and shoving gate and horses out of my path.
I was also having one of those coughing fits where your eyes stream, your voice disappears and you need to get to a glass of water immediately if you are not to die. A howling north-easterly was blowing a gale across the fields and a recently stitched finger - mistaken for a carrot by afore mentioned over enthusiastic animals,  (memo to self: abandon horse riding for less dangerous sport), was aching in the freezing cold without a glove because in that particular hand I was holding the damn cell phone. I mentioned some of this in passing to my voluble friend and some of it I guess she could have figured out for herself by interpreting the various noises hitting her down the phone line.
Did that stop her?
No. She went on for a good half an hour about her recent divorce settlement and I was reduced to saying “I do think you should appeal,” about one hundred times because what else do you say when she isn't really listening to you anyway? And besides, I had a gut feeling she wouldn't dream of appealing because, know what? I suspect she realises she's pushed her luck over the years and doesn't stand a chance of squeezing another penny out of the poor sod.
But times are changing and etiquette has moved on.
Nowadays the younger generation, even at diplomatic level, resort to dashing off an email at any time of day or night to say “thank you for dinner last night/last week”. Or worse still, they actually REFUSE  invitations from their own Ambassador  (aka God in my generation of dip wives, since his word was most certainly law and his invitations were most certainly not to be refused should he be so magnanimous as to extend one to a mere underling). To add insult to injury, these young whippersnappers do so with the frailest of excuses  such as that their mother in law just died, or they have a child in bed with meningitis or can’t get a babysitter.
Can’t get a Babysitter? What do you DO with the taxpayers’ money, for heaven’s sake? What’s £30 an hour compared to an evening basking in the presence of such an august personage as that of His Excellency your very own esteemed Ambassador?
In my day we would have been shipped off pronto as Third Secretary to Ouagadougou on a one way ticket.

Friday, 30 June 2017



There was a group of Americans down in St. Jean Cap Ferrat doing the Alphabet Tour.
It was Friday. Friday was France. Saturday was Spain and Sunday was Sicily. Thursday had been The U.K., which I thought was pushing it a bit, but they didn’t seem to mind. Monday would be Malta. I was slightly worried about Tuesday and Wednesday but they assured me with some excitement that the former was To Be Announced and the latter was Wherever. It was an Adventure Tour. They actually thought they were in Cap d’Antibes but the tour operator had muddled up the two Caps, an easy mistake since both locations have luxury hotels of the same name, so they were being shuffled up and down the coast in an overly large coach which was contributing dramatically to the snarling up of the already snarled traffic all along the Corniche. They didn’t seem to mind that either. You got better pictures that way, apparently.
We had been slightly worried about turning up at the Party of the Year in a dusty rented Fiat Punto smelling of stale tobacco and, by now, splattered with road kill - albeit of the six-legged winged variety. Himself wanted to put it through a car wash but I demurred. Let them think we had just driven up from a Safari, said I. Much more glamorous. I also pointed out that it was 8.00 pm which left us precisely half an hour to get showered, dressed, made-up and out the door.
There was a little note attached to an exquisite flower arrangement in our room welcoming us and informing us that we would be picked up in front of the hotel at 8.15.  Right.  Good news bad news. Saved from the dirty Fiat dilemma, at least.
We scrub up something lovely the pair of us after a lifetime of doing it against the clock, but it does require a good twenty minutes to achieve the required effect. Twenty-five if a bow tie is involved, which of course it was. Wrestling a bow tie single-handedly into submission is not something Himself has ever managed to achieve during his lifetime and it is invariably presented to me with a request for assistance just when I have two finger nails left to varnish. Purple. To match the toes.  I do hope you have been following. We are nothing if not colour co-ordinated. Or anal, as some would have it. There is nothing I can do about that: I belong to a generation which still matches its accessories. When I remember to pack them.
We shot out of the hotel lift and through the revolving glass doors in the manner of a brace of dervishes on their way to the carnival.
There were a dozen or so extraordinarily elegant couples standing in the forecourt checking their Audemars Piguets as we tumbled out at their feet. The men were all uniformly dressed in impeccably tailored white dinner jackets, the ladies in full length ball gowns and drooling with jewels. I regretted having omitted to pack a wonderful diamond cuff which a friend  had bought me from the local street market in Rome just before we left. I endeavoured, none too successfully since it was required for balance, to keep my left hand – the one carrying the uncoordinated handbag - out of sight behind my back whilst shaking hands with my right. I was making insignificant small talk in three and a bit languages about the weather and the non-appearance of the minibus when this sleek, highly polished black Rolls came purring to a halt at our feet and a sleek, highly polished, colour co-ordinated driver stepped out, consulted his list and read out our names. Leaving the rest of them standing there wondering who the hell we were. We smiled apologetically to the waiting hopefuls and slid gracefully into the padded leather upholstery. Awfully sorry.
Well, how were they to know our surname begins with an  A?

Bet the Americans would have twigged it, though. Americans are hot on things like that.

(...and don't forget there are more Ambassadress Trying to Behave episodes in

Sunday, 11 June 2017



There are ways and means of clouding the issues, of course. First and foremost you need to phrase the questions in such a manner that your average voter won’t understand what is being asked of him. Her. Other. The first time I voted in Italy was in a popular referendum in the summer of 2011. The difference between a popular and a constitutional referendum is that in the former you vote Yes to abolish the law under discussion, whereas in the latter you vote Yes to support it. So if you really wanted to say NO to Berlusconi and his favourite laws, you had to put YES on your ballot sheet. Also, ideally you should have been aware of the name, number, paragraph and subsection of whichever law was being referred to. The papers had been full of diagrams and explanations for weeks, but there was so much other more riveting news to absorb that one had tended to skip the legal stuff and head for the juicy bits.
Where Berlusconi was concerned, there was never a lack of juicy bits.
( read on.....

(...and don't forget the book, "Sorting the Priorities - Ambassadress and Beagle Survive Diplomacy":
available on Amazon :

Just what you need to read on the beach this summer.


Monday, 29 May 2017

Less than Popular

Don't miss my latest offering:

Your weekly Impakter articles.


Diary of a Diplomat’s Wife: Less than Popular

We are endeavouring to be on our best behaviour at this time of the year. We have disturbed memories, you see. Last Easter weekend saw Beagle and me qualifying for Guests From Hell status.

Monday, 15 May 2017

Ambassadors Do It After Dinner

Sorry for disappearing, but I was offered a slot on this great international on-line magazine.
Weekly super-food for the brain.    The perfect antidote to Trump Tweets.
Take a look :

.....and if you like it, try the book from Amazon:
"Sorting the Priorities - Ambassadress and Beagle Survive Diplomacy"

Wednesday, 19 April 2017



Had house guests this weekend - old friends who had overtaken us in the earning stakes years ago and were still managing  to make a highly respectable living  despite the current economic climate.  They were hot back from London where they had booked a table for some business acquaintances in a certain  rather exclusive and dreadfully pricey Italian trattoria  nestling in the very heart of Mayfair.  Well you would, wouldn't you, if you were trying to hook a mega deal with an oil-rich country?
Mr. and Mrs. Oil-Rich were resplendent in traditional floor length robes and had omitted to mention they would be bringing their ten month old baby in a very large and cumbersome pushchair complete with all the frills and jingly bits. And a pre-prepared bottle with which to feed it upon arrival.   Okaaay.
Somehow they managed to get the buggy through the lines of Ferraris and Bentleys, Rollers and Maseratis double parked as usual outside. Fine so far.   9 pm on a Saturday night.  Not exactly empty.
In they wheel.
Baby sets up a wail. Well they do, don't they? Bottle is produced, heated and inserted in the correct end. Three minutes peace ensues whilst kind waiters endeavour to make cumbersome pushchair as invisible as possible. Not an easy task.  Starched napkins and over-large menus are flapped open all round the table. Niceties are exchanged in a variety of foreign languages, none of which are particularly relevant to the mother tongue of anyone present, but salve the combined conscience as being evidence that all those seated around said table were making an effort to be international.  Wide smiles make up for any deficiency in communication skills.
Atmosphere warming up nicely.
Baby chooses this moment to throw up.  All over nice white starched  Michelin starred table cloth and nice white starched and starred waiters. Mopped up with tail end of headscarf, prior to flustered exit to ladies loo bearing infant screaming for having been deprived of its dinner.
Out of respect for their guests' religion and their own personal budget, they had omitted to order anything from the restaurant's famous wine list and were sticking to mineral water, so I suspect they might not find it quite so easy to get a table on a Saturday night next time around. 
 I noticed, too, that they were making up for lost time at the expense of our rapidly dwindling wine cellar over the weekend, and can only surmise that the hoped-for big deal remained stuck in the pipeline.

More international anecdotes in :

 Sorting the Priorities - Ambassadress and Beagle Survive Diplomacy


Monday, 10 April 2017



You might possibly have noticed that basically, (ooooh, everyone’s favourite word. Don’t even THINK of giving a radio interview without inserting it at least once per sentence. Also begin each sentence with “So….”.    Not “Err…” or “Um…”    Times have changed.
So, as I was saying, basically this column is a poor excuse for flogging my book. See below. Please.
Now the book in question first appeared in a rather iffy Italian translation (pace Sperling and Kupfer, but the exact translation of “ midday”, amongst thirty odd other howlers, is actually “mezzogiorno.” Not “mezzanotte,” as your translator suggested, and the Ministers were “signing” important papers in the Ambassador’s private office. Not singing.) The idea of publishing in Italian was an attempt to avoid ruining my husband’s career. He was Italian Ambassador to the Court of St. James at the time, and I was endeavouring to be on my best behaviour. I did, however, obtain permission to publish and promote in Italy.

                                                   So this is what happened. 

I was standing in the middle of a muddy field just outside Rome with a Beagle straining at the leash in one hand (trying to resettle a passing cat in the upper branches of a nearby tree where she thought it would look more attractive….) and in the other, a very excited horse trying to leap a fence in order to rejoin its pals on the other side where the grass, as is the habit with grass the world over, was greener, when the mobile phone started ringing. Nothing new so far. Jodphur pockets are notoriously small and it all took some time and a fair amount of pretty colourful language before I managed to extricate the phone, by which time Ms Highly Pissed Orff My Time is Precious was chafing at the bit on the other end of the not very clear line.

Would I agree, she asked, to do a T.V.programme where I would show the viewers how to prepare a meal suitable to serve in an Embassy whilst we discussed My Book?

Beagle takes advantage to disappear over the skyline in hot pursuit of an imaginary lizard or wild boar, horse practices standing on various combinations of two legs and Ms Famous Writer (me) explains in no uncertain terms that, given the option, I would much prefer to be shot from outer space, head down, in a follow up attempt to break the sound barrier. Thank you.

Oh, says Ms H.P.O.M.T.I.P., somewhat snootily, then I'll call back tomorrow and we'll discuss it after you have given it some thought.

So the next day I am standing on the outskirts of the 5yr old's athletics class with 5 yr old in question clinging like a limpet to my trouser leg because he is having a bad attack of Mummyitis, except that unfortunately Mummy in question is in Amsterdam for a conference so he's having to make do with the substitute, me, instead, and the phone goes. Would I prefer to spend three minutes just talking about the book on TV, or do the half hour cookery programme as mentioned?

Does this remind you of that bit in Doctor Spock where it explains that you never ask a toddler whether he would like spinach for dinner? What you should ask, as everyone knows, is "would you like spinach or Brussel sprouts for dinner?” “Darling?”

For various reasons, most of which I consider to be blatantly obvious, I did not care to mention that the last time I had achieved anything resembling serious cooking was somewhere around March 3rd 1978, since when I had employed someone else to do it for me. That my well known culinary speciality was burnt everything. That for the past ten years of my diplomatic wanderings, we had employed professional cooks, most of whom were quite rightly reluctant to allow me within sniffing distance of the kitchen. That my idea of haute cuisine these days was a tuna fish sandwich and a banana consumed, mostly, whilst waiting for the traffic lights to change.

I cannot, I said with some conviction, pretend to teach the Italians how to cook Italian food. The most I could offer, I said, is my patriotic version of Coulibiac. Puff pastry, (ready- made), risotto, (Knorr), (left over) cooked salmon, (frozen) shrimps, (M&S ready- made) Hollandaise sauce (imported from London and microwaved to within an inch of its life.......) When you have piled it all into the pastry case and cooked and sliced it, you get layers of red white and green, if it doesn’t collapse on you first. The Italian flag. Eat your heart out, Berlusconi, famous for his Pasta Tricolore and strawberry, vanilla and pistachio ice-cream combinations.
Stupidly I left out the bits in brackets, and I could hear her salivating all down the phone.

The things one lets oneself in for just to flog a book.

Writing a weekly blog, for example.

Sorting the Priorities - Ambassadress and Beagle Survive Diplomacy

Sunday, 26 March 2017


Khalid Masood went to school in Tunbridge Wells. I went to a boarding school in Wadhurst, a small village just a few miles up the road. At my establishment* we had no contact with the outside world, no radios, no newspapers and our only access to television was during Wimbledon week. Whenever, and for whatever reason, we were at a loss for words,  we were encouraged to make uncontroversial conversation about the weather. So this is precisely what I propose to do this week. Forgive, please. My motives are sincere.

You will be pleased to know that Italians now have Weather just like the British. Despite having more weather forecast apps on their mobile phones than most, they never know what is going to hit them from one day to the next and as a result they talk about it all the time. No more "I'm on the train," or “Do you really put mascarpone in yours?” or “How come the Pope didn’t have anything to say about that?”
Now it's  "I know...when is it ever going to stop?"
Rome, in fact, is a living example of the unpredictability of meteorlogical conditions, a.k.a global warming.
First we had the tropical rainstorms. There was a moment last summer when I couldn't get out of the house for the rain and yet two days later I was at the beach making sandcastles with my grandson in a bikini. No - bad syntax.  I was in a bikini. He was actually wearing a long sleeved vest, a long sleeved shirt, a woollen sweater and an anorak. But only because his father and paternal grandparents are Sicilian.
It was an amazingly stupid summer - thunder, lightning, gales, torrential rain and then a blinding heat-wave. Every now and then it would let up for ten minutes so Beagle and I could make a dash for the woods in our Cath Kidson Wellies (Warning: Romans do not understand pink flowery Cath Kidson Wellies. Do I care? No, I do not) - only to dive back three minutes later with our respective tails between our legs like a couple of drowned rats. Then the sun would come out, the heat reached 48°C in the shade, and the city would return to stinking alternately of dog pee and rotting rubbish with a dash of putrid drain thrown in.
And let’s not forget the winter of 2011 – 2012.
First we had two uninterrupted months of weather as she should be. Crisp mornings with brilliant sunshine, not a cloud in the proverbial,  just cold enough to kill off next year’s mosquito eggs and have daily visits from the local robin. Horses snorting with excitement, Beagle’s nose to the ground pretending to hunt for boar and rabbits. That sort of weather. We settled back and enjoyed it. No question of all that “Weather Permitting” rubbish. We knew it would be cold but fine and sunny and so it was.
But then it snowed. Twenty-seven centimetres of snow on my window ledge. I measured it.
I personally was confined to barracks for 48 hours and to the best of my knowledge Beagle only peed twice in all that time and I can’t say I blame her. To open my front door I would have needed a shovel and let me tell you that Ladies that Live in Rome do not possess shovels. Nor would they be seen dead wielding one even if they knew what they were for. Also - Catch 22 – I could not drive to the nearest shops to buy a shovel to dig the car out of the snow until I had dug the car out of the snow.
Finally one morning I managed to free the car from its snow drift with the aid of a trowel and a wooden spoon and head, crab-like, for the nearest supermarket which was closed, together with the bank, the restaurants, all the schools and everything else requiring non-residential staff.
Welcome to Rome.
This was the moment that I, with indomitable British foresight,  flew in the face of much neighbourly ridicule and chose to engage a man to blast a hole through my bedroom wall in order to install an air conditioning unit. The snow drifted happily in as he worked and I had a vague fear that he considered the hole sufficient ventilation in its own right, for I could see no sign of afore-mentioned unit. Plenty of signs of beer consumption, wiping of sweaty brow and consulting with cronies on his mobile phone, however, all of which was most surely added to the bill. Not much evidence of installation of a large ugly cube which, for its doubtlessly limited lifetime, would drip rust stains down the side of my newly whitewashed wall once it was up and running, probably sometime the following December if Sod’s Law were still to be trusted, by which time I would have a raving alcoholic on my hands as he slowly but surely submitted to the temptation of the demon drink.  Unless, of course, his great aunt decided to snuff it or his daughter to have her First Communion or he suddenly remembered he had omitted to apply for all those silly bits of paper permitting him to work here in the first place thus obliging him to follow in the footsteps of his predecessor and leave me, oh so regretfully, with the job half done.
There  - another ethnic generalisation before breakfast. A stereotype a day keeps the publishers away. Well, that seems to be working, anyway. 

      * quote from a deadly diplomatic dinner as described in "Sorting the Priorities,"

*The school had proclaimed itself to be an Anglican establishment for the educating of young ladies, and the laying on of guilt was one of its more successful achievements. One of the fastest routes to hell, I remembered as I reluctantly turned away from my English neighbour and back to the politician, had been to leave a gap in the conversation at table. Controversial subjects were taboo – not that we knew of any, given that newspapers, television and radio were forbidden, and contact with the outside world was minimal.  On Sundays we talked about the sermon – exclusively.

 On Saturdays, it was the school’s performance in the weekly lacrosse match. Tuesdays we were only permitted to speak French. Privately we thanked the Lord in our prayers for the ever-changing English weather.
“They say,” I confided to the politician on my right who aspired to be something important in the next government, and whose anxiety whilst he awaited The Call was rendering him virtually monosyllabic, “they say it’s going to be an unusually cold winter.”

Sunday, 19 March 2017


I realise that, clinically speaking, I am pig ignorant about all the things that rattle around my insides.

And don't even ask me about X-rays.

So off I go to the surgeon who had hammered my foot back together last month. Look, he says, look there. Umm yes, ok. See that fracture? Umm not really. I can see three nasty looking ten inch nails going every which way through my split ankle, and forming a perfect Capital "A".

How thoughtful of him to remember, since the minute you go through the doors of a hospital or any kind of official institution in Italy you immediately revert to your maiden name. Ohhh! Now I get it! He couldn't manage a "J" for Jackson, so he did an "A" for Aragona?
How kind.

Sod kind – I am ordered to complete another two weeks in the boot but with only one crutch for support. Woohoo! - sent one back to the hire shop straight away and bought the other one for the large amount of seven euros. Well I'm quite attached to it, after all this time. When I can remember where I've left it, that is.

Followed by another week without the crutch but still with the boot. Okaaaay.....

Followed by twelve sessions of physio (Ummm...could I cram them all into one day? If I promise not to attempt to get onto a horse until, say, Day Three?)

Apparently not.

Not even considered amusing. Yawn.

I was thinking about Chris Huhne this morning as I cruised up the motorway to Florence doing a gentle 140kph with a broken foot encased in a surgical boot in a car with automatic transmission. Yes, I am aware that my driving licence ran out at the end of January, but I made this printout from the DVLA especially for you and any of your colleagues who might be interested, Officer. See that bit highlighted in green where it says that I am entitled to drive until my new licence arrives? Yes I KNOW it’s in English, but I am prepared to translate it for you while we speak. Well nooo, actually, I would really prefer to remain seated in my car whilst we have this little conversation if it’s all the same to you….Officer. Ahhh! That thing on my foot? Well, with an automatic car, I don’t really need to use that foot, don’t you see? Sort of superfluous, like. Don’t you think?

I had been listening to a phone-in on the Italian radio as I drove. They were discussing cheating on points. Interestingly Italians seem to get special indulgences for minor sins like these, possibly because they are that much closer to Papal protection. Anyway, listeners were being encouraged to call in with their personal reminiscences. It was fascinating. It appears there is a whole market out there in Points Bartering. The going rate on eBay is fifty euros per point. One chap (Antonio from Pavia) rang in to say he had got done driving at 180kph on the Pisa – Livorno and had begged to be let off because he was a courier and it was his livelihood. They were threatening to take his licence away, he complained to the officer on duty in his local police station. How was he supposed to feed his wife and family if they took his licence away? The policeman just shrugged and asked wearily whether he didn’t have some friend or relative who could help him out. They’ve seen and heard it all, those cops, and anyway there was, as usual, a footie match on the tele he was trying to follow. So Antonio from Pavia went back home and borrowed his Dad’s driving licence for a minute, which would have been fine except that when he returned to the police station the match was over and there was a different officer on duty. A woman. And she was highly sceptical about the tale of a ninety year old man doing 180 up the Pisa - Livorno on a Harley Davidson. The programme went on in this vein for a further twenty minutes. One young bachelor gave his aunty five of his points in exchange for her preparing him a home cooked supper every Friday night for the next six months. Another, caught making a phone call whilst simultaneously being over the alcohol limit, solved the problem by investing in one of those kiddy cars that you are allowed to drive without a licence in Italy provided you have reached the age of fourteen. Apparently you can get a good 60kph out of a souped-up version going downhill with a following wind.

I love Italy. I love the flexibility. Halfway across a zebra crossing with a Ferrari coming straight at you with no intention of slowing down let alone stopping? Don’t worry. So long as you don’t dither, he will take avoiding action and you will both reach your respective destinations unscathed. Stuck at a red traffic light with nothing to be seen in either direction? Go for it. You are performing a public service by helping to keep the traffic flowing.

According to an Italian proverb, though, cats here are said to have seven lives, not nine like the British mog.

Unsurprising, really.

More partly fictitious stuff, (Officer….) in "Sorting the Priorities" :

Sunday, 12 March 2017


So Wikileaks is back in the news, and I for one am unfazed. Been there, done the photo shoot, the listening devices and Big Brother reading my emails. I went to the sort of boarding school where reading one’s correspondence was par for the course you see, and later lived in Moscow for three years, where we would always shoot a dazzling smile at the chandelier before launching into even the most innocent of conversations. 

As mentioned in last week’s blog, we do not possess a TV. In the light of the latest revelations about the FBI spying on us through our electrical appliances, will this absence of a set in my home now to be considered with grave suspicion? Will I be allowed to plead innocence by offsetting the lack of such a device with an electric toothbrush, toaster or mosquito zapper?

Can I ask for my dinky little Bluetooth speaker to be taken into consideration? I’ll bet that electric blanket could tell anyone who was interested a whole lot more about my private life than a TV set, frankly. And I won’t even mention the fridge. Anyone capable of spying seditious behaviour through the mayhem and tsunami which explodes the minute I open the fridge door this week, deserves my unmitigated admiration.

Hobbling around with a couple of crutches doesn’t leave much possibility to clear it out, you should understand. There are an amazing number of things one can achieve with one operable leg, one operated foot and two pre-occupied hands, but clearing out a fridge isn’t among them. There is an advanced life form lurking at the back of the salad drawer which could turn into a lethal weapon at the drop of a hat.

I once had a girlfriend whose foot was notoriously heavy on the accelerator whilst driving her cute little sports number and, as a result, she was constantly setting off those sneaky speed traps which take such unflattering photos of one’s number plate. She consequently spent a lot of her time touching up her make up just in case she was included in the picture and not represented at her very best. It never bothered her either, so long as she had her war paint on.

I always found it rather hard to get excited about Wikileaks when it first hit the papers in 2012. At the time, apart from the Saudi Arabians asking the USA not very nicely to please bomb Iran before it was too late, most of it was gossip magazine fodder. Not that I would know what gossip mags print, being far too intellectual to actually go out and buy one and far too busy to spend time at the hairdresser’s reading their back copies. One has one’s reputation as a literary snob, (based primarily on two poems published in the school magazine at the age of twelve and a couple of hundred letters from well-known publishers most regretfully rejecting my subsequent manuscripts,) to consider.

But to go back to Wikileaks.

Being disparaging about politicians and rubbishing Berlusconi was an international pastime for most of the world anyway at the time, so there wasn’t much new there, after all. Furthermore, I confess to having had some difficulty understanding how you could arrest someone for rape when both sides apparently declared that what they were having was consensual sex up until the moment when the condom popped. And whilst we are on this subject, I have yet to meet anyone of either sex who would be capable of realising, during the height of the moment, that the condom had clapped out. It’s not like they go off in a burst of fireworks and a roll of drums, or at least, not with the men that I have had, perhaps, the misfortune to encounter, though I can understand how some of them might feel highly flattered at the very notion. It could be that I have been missing out on something earth shatteringly moving in this particular department, but explosions and resultant earthquakes seem to have passed me by. What can I say? Should I go out and conduct a survey amongst my fellow Wives Of ….in order to better comprehend whether this has formed part of their extracurricular diplomatic experiences? No, I must confess to a certain degree of ignorance here because conversations of this nature did not crop up too often during official dinners or rather dire Ladies Luncheons. And just as well, because if the US ambo had been present it would have been all over Newsweek the next morning, presumably.

A modicum of bitching has, of course, always been carried out over the dinner table. In fact, just so long as they didn’t require names, they could have read my columns and used their imaginations without needing to set up a witch hunt for poor Julian who, frankly, should have been an antiques dealer in the first place with a name like that.

But what does interest me in all this, is the inevitable frenetic interest in other people’s private opinions, conversations and considerations. In fact I see some great career openings ahead because if that is what people really want, any old bored wife of not particularly career- manic diplomat could provide it most happily on a silver salver. We spend our entire time eavesdropping and some of us can even read and write.

Just name your price.

Monday, 6 March 2017



So far, each day since the accident has been dominated by the necessity upon awaking of plunging a hypodermic needle into my stomach in order to stave off thrombosis and by the difficulty of taking a shower, (lots of Cling film involved here.....), without slipping on the wet floor and doing permanent damage to sundry other body parts. However the good news this week is that I hopped (sic.) along to the Orthopaedic surgeon for an update and got permission to flex the broken foot, wiggle the toes and most importantly, allow it to touch the ground. This latter, you must understand, is worth every penny the insurance company is going to have to pay him because it will make ALL the difference to my balance (more especially after even a tiny glass of whatever). Furthermore I sweet-talked him into saying that, having seen some horse riders near his Place in the Country the other weekend, he agrees with me (clearly understanding nothing about horses, except that one of them tried to kick his car to bits when he passed too close...), that by the end of the month, just sitting on a horse and going for a gentle walk through the woods couldn't possibly harm the excellent work he had done of nailing me back together. There remains the psychological block of hoisting oneself into the saddle from the wrong side (broken foot being the left one,) and the necessity of explaining to said horse that this is what I will be doing in the immediate future. So get over it. I do hope this is not too technical for my non-horsey readers.
 Thinking it over though, I did wonder whether perhaps the permission to get back in the saddle might just be his personal vendetta against riders in general and horses-that-kick-his-car in particular?

Needless to say a surgical boot and a pair of crutches hasn’t kept me too far away from all things four-legged, and I was up at the stables a couple of times last week receiving sympathy from the cats, admiring the latest rescued puppies, and keeping a safe distance from iron clad hooves intent upon kicking those crutches from under me.

But all this hobbling around suddenly reminded me of Beagle’s latter days.

We had just ended our time at the London Embassy and were back in Rome, learning to drive like Italians again, and trying not to attract the attention of the ever present Carabinieri intent upon asking embarrassing questions as to why I was driving a Japanese car with Russian number plates whilst in possession of a British driver’s licence. Something like that. We were none of us getting any younger and the days when I could twist Italian Carabinieri round my little finger were sadly long past. Luckily Beagle would always defend the car if anyone in uniform approached and would throw a complete panic attack whilst simultaneously trying to rip their balls off, and how was anyone but me to know she was deaf, toothless and wouldn't really hurt a pussy cat? As a result they would usually lose all interest in inspecting my papers, for which Beagle was regularly awarded an extra dollop of yummy horse droppings the minute we reached the stables. Perhaps I should have mentioned that this week’s column is not for the over-fastidious, but I guess it’s too late now.

Anyway, weirdly I took up kickboxing – it had seemed like a good idea at the time, though somewhat of a strain on the hips when one got carried away, and it was not without its repercussions at dog walking time. Beagle was 16 years old by this stage and had arthritis. I had Kickbox Syndrome. She limped to the left, I favoured the right. Each to her own. We would hobble round the park and sink onto the nearest bench and read the Sundays in our copious free time. Occasionally we would go upmarket and stroll along the Via Veneto, taking it in turns to check out the shoe shops and the lampposts. I didn’t particularly need another pair of shoes and most certainly not the sort of shoes I might come across on that particular boulevard, but I liked to think it was an educational experience for Beagle. One gets a better class of smell off a Via Veneto lamppost.
Beagle was totally unfazed. Her preferred aroma was, of course, that of a nicely mature muck heap.
Later, hoping to cheer her up in her last few months, we would issue invitations to some of her friends to come round for lunch. “Beagle and her owner wish to extend their warmest greetings to Oscar and Fido and to invite them over on Friday around 1pm. Ikea smoked salmon will be purchased in bulk (so that we don't actually need to cook) and snippets will be provided at dog level. Beagle hasn't actually eaten anything at all for 48 hours now, despite still managing to evacuate from both ends about three times daily, mostly over the carpets which is why you will find there are no more carpets in the house. Sorry about that but do hope you can all come regardless.”
The latest disaster had taken place just as I was showered, hair washed, made-up and dressed ready to go to a Knights of Malta bash and I inadvertently put my (naked) foot into a huge pile of dog shit just at the moment of leaving, late as usual, for the party, bearing my killer heels in one hand and 13 kgs of half-asleep granddaughter on the opposite hip. The latter had somehow got left behind in the general rush by the rest of the family to get back home (where there was a television) in time to watch The Match. (*)
All of which was more information than was needed, I thought, so I left it at the carpets.

We both missed London. Despite the frenetic social life when we had been posted to the Embassy, I had always made time to walk her through Hyde Park each day. We needed the exercise and to escape from our exalted surroundings. If I was obliged to go away for a weekend or longer, she would be picked up by a girlfriend, taken down to Kent on a train and kept in the luxury to which she had always aspired, pinching pony nuts from the horses, chasing the chickens, pigeons and the other three dogs mercilessly when not falling into the swimming pool and having to be fished out ignominiously on the end of a boat hook. One of the dogs was, I feel sure you would wish to know, one of those crossbreeds which have become so popular. Labradoodles, for example. This particular one was a cross between a Shitsu and a Poodle. I think I can leave you to work it out by yourselves.

So in answer to one of my followers on this blog, even if I’m not tripping over her physically, Beagle is still very much a presence around here. Despite those new puppies.

Back next Monday. Hopefully trotting.

(*) Ok, so here’s another weird thing for your collection. We do not possess a television. Never had one, though good luck with trying to convince both the BBC licencing dept. and their Italian equivalent of that little snippet of information.)
More Beagle and undiplomatic episodes by the s***-load, of course, in
“Sorting the Priorities – Ambassadress and Beagle survive Diplomacy” at


Thursday, 2 March 2017



So this is how it all began.

If there was one thing His Excellency would never have encouraged me to do, and he may well have been right, it was to place my diplomatic tongue firmly in my diplomatic cheek and describe my diplomatic experiences. So when I was asked to do just that for a magazine, there was no stopping me and I've been hooked ever since. There was just one proviso at the time: I was not prepared to name names because, after all, we would quite like to finish the rest of our career with dignity. I was given a page entitled "Ambassadress" in an erudite Swiss publication full of in-depth interviews with dignitaries of world renown. My task was, I suspect, to encourage them to take themselves a little less seriously.

Now as all we Diplomatic Bags know to our constant frustration, the term Ambassadress shouldn't exist. And even when one uses the cumbersomely correct terminology– Wife of Ambassador – it still doesn’t carry much weight. Partner? You have to be joking. Equality doesn’t come into the equation here. We are at best an appendage and at worst a liability. A ticking bomb to be kept on as short a rein as humanely possible, if I may be forgiven a mixed metaphor or two.

I began by describing a typical Embassy dinner party. An unlikely juxtaposition of a newly arrived desperate housewife, a monosyllabic but very smiley Chinese couple and a High Ranking Gentleman of the Cloth. Being a lapsed Prot, these latter always throw me. It invariably takes me half an hour to work out whether to address them as Your Eminence or Your Excellency. I know it has something to do with the colour of their skull caps, but after a couple of glasses of the white and bubbly I can never remember which is which. I can, however, do better than the chap sitting opposite me at a Tiaras Will Be Worn occasion one evening, who wanted to know to which royal families all the ladies with crowns belonged.

Anyway, there I was that night doing a Wimbledon: left, right, left, right and across the table to keep them all in the conversation. The problem was that the lady to the right was intent on informing the company at large about her three children, whereas I wanted a straight-from-the-horse's-mouth opinion concerning the Vatican's decision to declare Limbo a no-go area. Prior to working up, possibly, according to reactions, to the gay priests and holocaust denial problems, you understand. By the time I'd turned to the Chinese to explain about limbo, I'd lost my audience back to the Problems of Secondary Schools and potty training. No, not in that order, obviously.

Eating and drinking for one’s country has always been one of the requisites for a successful diplomat. Ability to consume vast quantities of food and alcohol without incurring permanent damage to the arteries, to the liver or to one’s ability to make a coherent speech or semi-intelligible conversation should be taken as an inherent part of the training. There was a time when new entrants to the Italian Corps were invited to a formal meal during the course of which the aspirant would be encouraged to demonstrate his prowess at wielding a knife and fork whilst simultaneously sustaining rational conversation in a minimum of three languages. A career could be truncated before it even began by a single strand of wayward spaghetti. A high ranking German colleague once confessed to me that ultimately he owed his success to having unflinchingly pursued an argument on macro-economics in fluent Mandarin despite his Foreign Secretary having inadvertently spiked a Chicken Kiev with excessive fervour, thereby releasing a stream of hot liquefied garlic butter all over his new suit. *

It was immediately blindingly clear to his masters that he was destined for the highest echelons of The Service.

According to the country to which it has been assigned, your diplomatic digestive tract is expected to deal with all manner of culinary horrors: eye of camel, trotter of pig, tripe of cow, leg of frog, tail of ox, crackling of grasshopper. The hair of dog is manna from heaven after such abuse and every so often there comes a moment when the thought of food palls. When if you see just one more dish of Nigerian Piri Piri or Russian dumplings or Belgian waffles and fresh cream chocolates you think you might just go on a diet. When you wake up in the morning and your liver groans almost audibly and begs for mercy. This is when your diplomatic spouse should start applying pressure for a new foreign assignment, for however hard one tries, those calories are out to get you if you are doing the cocktail and dinner party circuit on an almost daily basis for the glory of the parentland. On an average evening you are expected to attend anything up to three farewell cocktail parties and/or a National Day celebration. The procedure is as follows: get tarted up in a flimsy frock and a pair of ridiculously high heels, (catching bronchial pneumonia for my country), identify Ambassador or host, commiserate or congratulate, hook a passing waiter for a glass of fizz and make way discreetly to nearest exit, if necessary through the kitchen. Head off to next bash and repeat procedure. Such a glamorous life.

A friend of mine was discovered one morning close to tears because, after a mere six months of doing the social round, she was unable to fit into her newly acquired expensive and extensive wardrobe. It was not a new situation for her: she had a constant running battle with her figure and would look at me with horror as I knocked back the Mars bars and cocktails. Life was just unfair, though on the other hand, as I endeavoured to console her, she had every excuse to ask her husband for some new clothes. And as everyone knows, when one puts on a bit of weight one’s shoe size goes up proportionately, which somehow makes the handbag look all wrong too. Not many men realise the crosses we women have to bear. Our lives are one constant struggle.

She should attempt to lose a couple of kilos and request some new outfits. What’s a couple of missed lunches and a glass or three less than usual compared to a whole new wardrobe?

The jewellery will be the wrong colour too.

Never forget the details.

     Ok guys - you can find all the blurb about who the hell I am on

and that took me about a week to sort. Technologically challenged me, but here is the more immediate reason as to why I am blogging. Or hope I am.

Broke a foot. A rather large and surprisingly heavy horse saw fit to go beserk in the middle of a forest last weekend and subsequently fell on top of me. I proceeded, obviously, to haul myself back into the saddle and hack the hour and a half back to the stables, thereby transforming what had probably been a simple fracture into something a little more complicated. I then opted for being nailed together and wearing a boot for a month, as opposed to having to spend far longer scratching the inside of a plaster cast with a knitting needle. This former solution, I am assured, will have me back in the saddle and lobbing tennis balls over a net (or, more frequently, into nearby car parks,) in double quick time, though in the meantime I am discovering that I am total rubbish at manipulating a pair of crutches without falling over backwards.
Working on this skill. And blogging and preparing my next book. And sending bags of carrots anonymously to above-mentioned animal who, I am thrilled to report, is fit as a fiddle and galloping round her field with an expression which clearly says
"Who, ME?"

“Call me,” I messaged my girlfriend.
“Let’s talk, since I’m not really going anywhere. For the next week or so.”
She’s housebound and hobbling around on crutches too. 
“Good idea,” she types back.
“Let’s chat over the weekend……..what is a weekend? Same table, same chair, same sofa, same bed.”
So right, I thought. So I accepted an invitation out to dinner and it rained.
So what, you regular bipeds out there will be thinking. Yawn. Is she going to turn this into a weather forecast? Let me tell you why this meteorological fact is so important to an amateur crutch user. I was invited to dinner next door. This merely involved getting out of the front door, hobbling down my path and up their identical path. Piece of cake.

Terracotta. Wet.

When my six month old Beagle puppy first set eyes on ducks in the park, she couldn’t believe her luck. They didn’t even fly away, just waddled unconcernedly straight back into, or rather onto, the pond. It was midwinter and frozen solid. Puppy flew straight onto the ice in hot pursuit and went SPLAT! All four paws pointing to all four points of the compass, tummy flat on the ice. Look of total bewilderment, and believe me, Beagles don’t often do bewilderment. Guilt yes, not bewilderment.

So there I am, negotiating with grace and precision my front door step when I hit this wet terracotta. Left crutch skids off to the left, right one in the opposite direction. Me left hanging on to the doorknob by my chin. Another 250 steps to go and the pasta is congealing. It is not in the best interests of neighbourliness to allow pasta to congeal in Italy.

Working on having a better relationship with that table, chair, sofa and bed until the rain dries up. Not with the crutches, though. I know when something is out to get me and am relegating them to WMD status.

Back to writing. Much less dangerous

*plagiarised from my own fictional autobiography: "Sorting the Priorities - Ambassadress and Beagle survive Diplomacy"