Dr Johnson said “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London everything life can afford.” well when this Sloane tires of London, and yes does happen – she hops, skips and jumps into that lush green pasture known as the countryside.

So, dressed in racing tweeds and dear departed granny’s furs and pearls, I was whisked away to Cheltenham races by my darling friend Bungo. On the luggage rack of his MG convertible, he had stowed away a hamper with delish nibbles from Messrs - Fortnum & Mason or as he refers to them: 'the grocers in the high…'! It was a rare privilege to have Bungo as my chaperone given he seldom leaves the Sloane Square Mile, especially after his recent infamous antics at the Cartier after-party forced him to duck from the social radar.

We arrived and located my ‘racing scene’ guide and friend to the trainers, Miss Annette Hunt or 'Nettles' to her chums. Along with Bungo, Nettles and I set off for the racecourse where fortunes can be won or lost in a mere moment and trust funds often take a bit of a biff. Where the view of the course is a valued commodity, we hotfooted over to the last fence to secure our viewpoint while swigging stern stuff from Bungo’s hip flask to take the bitter edge off the November Chill.

Bungo and I placed our bets on a chestnut mare after he assured me its chances of winning with knowing wink when the horse was paraded earlier in the paddock. We followed the race intently. Sadly our
chestnut came a disappointing second from last. Nettles leapt up excitedly as her 11-3 outsider won and she later invited Bungo and myself to the Royal Oak Pub hole to revive us with Mr Bollinger’s finest, and to join our country chums who were stationed there.

We caught up with the dashing rake, Mr. Fin Gunn, sporting an enviable heliotrope cravat, and his partner in crime, Darbs, who was busy gulping whisky macs with a little man from Abu Dhabi who proclaimed being 'hot in oil'. He was kitted in the old English favourite, Aquascutum. The look wasn’t totally appropriate for the occasion as he sported one of their classic macs, check galoshes and a hat redolent of Inspector Clouseau.

The afternoon passed with amusing anecdotes provided by our new chum – now nicknamed Clouseau. Drama ensued when Bungo dived behind the nearest pot plant. We all turned and spotted Octavia T-G (yes, the one who famously held the Kings Road to a standstill when she furiously reprimanded an American Military Attaché over a disputed parking space, almost ruining our special relationship with our transatlantic cousin by threatening to tear up the American Declaration of Independence) making a beeline towards us using her black Chanel 2.55 as a weapon against those who deigned get in her way.

Octavia and Bungo are well known for having the most tempestuous relationship in which Bungo is under strict orders never to wear his fuchsia pink corduroys in public. The situation came to an impasse when he went as far as adopting his sternest look and told Octavia that he could no longer live under such unbearable conditions and must end their relationship. Octavia haughtily refused to break up and instructed him to ‘pull himself together’. Ever since, poor Bungo has resorted to hiding behind pot plants and trembling under refreshment tables upon sight of her, much to the amusement of those around him. Nettles and I darted outside before Octavia could thrust herself upon us, leaving Fin Gunn, Darbs and Clouseau to tend to their ever-increasing number of female companions.
After saying goodbye to Nettles, I managed to find Bungo again, looking somewhat dishevelled not knowing whether that was due to an encounter with Octavia and her Chanel 2.55 or unsuccessfully wrestling with shrubbery.

All in all, despite our chestnut mare’s inclination to rest at the fourth fence, it was a jolly good day at the races. As Bungo and I were hastily motoring back to the Metrop, this Sloane believed that however tired of London she might be, the odd weekend jaunt to partake in country happenings ensures that she never
tires of life.