The way things are going in Notting Hill, from what I hear, is that the Russians are block-buying whole London squares without even asking the price, so it’s nice to think of someone reasonably normal like you and Gideon and of course baby Joe and Fatima in the old wreck rather than some flashy private equity magnate or hedge funder. I miss you all, and I miss the garden, now that I’m Country Barbie down here. I miss Fatima’s help – I never realized how much she did.

Anyway, must stop now, and go and stare at green fields through the kitchen window. It’s pouring again. I should really go upstairs, and tidy the linen cupboard, and make my bed.

I can’t get away from the fact that I’m bored, I admit it, and Ralph is always away. It was really good to hear from you. I feel so left out. OK, Marguerite calls occasionally, and I do get news of Si from the Sunday Times Rich List and so on, but I totally got the feeling that you think I’ve moved the show off Broadway.

I do know I can’t offer any of the deluxe country-house-hotel comforts that townies now expect, having their rooms tidied and suitcases unpacked, masses to eat, hot towel rails, goosedown mattress toppers, ever-changing cast of amusing guests. Plus, we live in an ancient stone farmhouse in a remote river valley that comes into its own in the summer months without, as one cannot emphasize enough, central heating.

I can – just – survive without being surrounded by cafés, shops, girly boutiques, spas, chi-chi delis, world-class restaurants, cinemas, clubs, vintage markets and all the delights that Notting Hill had to offer.

But going without my lovely, rich, fair-weather London FRIENDS (especially you of course!) is almost too much.

Love,

Mimi

PS Can’t resist saying can’t believe this email is so long and boring – more like a LibDem manifesto than a quick reply so sorry… I do hope it’s all right – now you’ve had Joe – I think I’m pregnant again. Must be Ralph’s world-beating potency. Am sitting here with boobs like Zeppelins, hot flushing, with metallic taste in mouth and, even more telling, could only drink one glass of white wine last night rather than entire bottle on my own before the end of the six o’clock news, and haven’t even missed a period yet. It tasted like vinegar and went down like paint-stripper rather than promised fleshy, flirty, vanilla notes on the palate with a long, buttery finish. Also found myself listening quite happily to Wogan show on Radio 2 and sobbing to ‘Just When I Needed You Most’ by Randy Vanwarmer.

When I just hinted, very offhand, not giving anything away, Ralph only flinched very slightly at the mere topic of pregnancy, rather than blenching, so felt encouraged, but then he said that in his experience women always thought they were in pig but never were.

I press send. I know that telling Clare I might be pregnant is perhaps inadvisable, given her ten-year struggle to conceive, but I simply – given all that’s gone on – can’t resist it.