If Molly, my Jack Russell terrier, were a car, I would have lost my no-claims bonus long ago. This week saw yet another trip to the vet this time, fox mange and, more embarrassingly, a parish email: ‘Two small dogs found, very friendly and lively! I now have them tethered to my garage. Any advice is most welcome.’
We rounded them up from the Good Samaritan and Molly and Cracker bounded home as if life was all one long glorious ball. However, with her scars and tatty coat, Molly now looks like a tramp and would be banned at the door of any great social gathering
Later, at a very smart polo gathering, the Veuve Clicquot Gold Cup, I watched as the paparazzi flashed their cameras at the ensemble. The famous ladies wore the shortest skirts and the thinnest tops available, and the men were decked out in London’s version of country chic. Poor them. It was freezing.
The wind blew in furies, sending umbrellas and gazebos into orbit and the girls especially shivered hopelessly. Eventually, one took up the offer of my gnarled and shredded waxed Barbour jacket and, with her perma-tanned face poking out of the top, she looked rather like Molly herself.
