The world from my window

I am sitting here, sipping champagne as Mr Grigg does some DIY in the garage just before the sun goes down. Forgive the decadence, but if you read my last post, you'll understand why I'm celebrating. Not only did my knitting Land Girl colleague and I win the best exhibition stand, we also had a visit from a certain former MP. Yay! Here he is trying to put the country's economic woes to rights by having a go on the roll-a-penny, which my dear old aunt made before decimalisation. From those dizzy heights, it was off to Maiden Castle, near Dorchester, where the grandchildren, Mr Grigg and I played Ancient Romans. 'Not sure you did very much,' Mr Grigg said, weary after all that marching. 'I had a very important job,' I said. 'I was giving out the orders. My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius .' And today, as the sun beat down on our backs, they were under starters orders for the annual point-to-point races just a hop, skip and a tro...

Rah, rah rah! Point to point season hits this area with a rash of signs 'to the races' here, there and everywhere, as the thunder of horse boxes and cattle lorries reverberates around the village. This is a social event, high on a hillside overlooking the Axe Valley and several stately piles. Tweed is the order of the day here - with hats, trousers, jackets and even suits jostling for attention. Some are handed down from generation to generation. Barbour jackets are so yesterday, dahling, in these surroundings, as are Wellington boots, in the main, a poor relation to the Game Fair boots that cost £200 and up. Red cords are teamed with yellow shirts, public schoolboys and girls play rugger in between the parked cars and every one kisses each other twice on the cheek. If you don't have a four by four here, dahling, you are an absolute nobody. Because it is not possible to have your hamper, rug, six directors' chairs, sturdy table, tablecloth, linen napkins, enough smoked ...