Anyway, when we betas (three children, one house, no money) nudged the Subaru at the wrought-iron gates, they swung silently open, and we drove up in silence, drinking it all in: the finely graded, evenly distributed gravel, the beech trees that line the drive all lit up and, dotted around between the trees, a sort of sculpture garden, not just Brit Art and Damien Hirst ironic stuff with cows and naked women squatting to pee but wonderful old stuff too, like Frink and Hepworth and Moore, that must be worth millions…

We worry – or rather, I worry – about leaving the Subaru in front of the honey-stoned, colonnaded façade because it really lowers the tone, and wonder whether more frequent, i.e. richer and smarter guests, know to park round the back, at the stables, but then the butler, Maddocks, shimmies out to greet us.

‘What ho,’ says Ralph, predictably, when this man in a dark suit and tie who isn’t Granville and who is all too obviously a butler opens the door.

I try to execute a finishing-school exit from the Subaru, a manoeuvre made more complicated by the fact that I am carrying a bag and my precautionary pashmina, which remains acceptable –just – at evening events, especially ones held in the open air in April.

I am also grasping a precious and pretentiously expensive bottle of Peace Oil to my bosom, produced by Palestinian, Israeli and Druze farmers working in peace together, and soon to be gifted to Cath (though I’m wondering whether to leave it in the car as it’s coals to Newcastle taking a smart present to the rich, who all benefit from the to-those-that-have-shall-even-more-be-given rule, which is all wrong, as is the practice of taking humble scrap-like offerings to one’s poorest friends).

As soon as we arrive, Ralph’s clearly ready to give the house the once-over, to check out proportions, cornices, pictures and antiques, and especially the Flemish tapestries and modern art, but we are shooed through an enfilade of rooms into this double-length drawing room, which is heated, and when I say ‘heated’… it’s hammam temperature.

Two fires blaze in baronial fireplaces. Vast bunches of lilies perfume the air. Cath throws out her arms and gives a cry of pleasure at the sight of us, so I come forward shyly, and hand her the Peace Oil.

She thanks me profusely, crooks a finger to Maddocks and I just hear her say the words ‘raffle cupboard’ as a command as she hands over the precious greeny-gold vial. Then Maddocks returns with a tray of Champagne, and then Cath darts out.

Homemade parsnip and beetroot crisps, perfect cubes of polenta, melted mozzarella adorned with one deep-fried dark-green sage leaf and minuscule pork pies with crunchy pastry made with real suet are borne on two platters into the drawing room by Cath herself on her return, and handed round as casually as if they were Cheesy Wotsits.