A social pariah in the shires

We like our little cottage in a pretty Wiltshire village on the River Kennet — and we just hope the village likes us. It’s hard to tell.

‘I see you’ve been doing a lot of work on the house. So, have you finally moved in or are you [slight pause, crinkle of nose] weekending?’ asked one of the village’s grand dames.

‘Oh, yes, we’re very much here and loving it,’ I said. There was no need to mention that London is where we live, Wiltshire is where we flop, and that we don’t even get down every weekend. Don’t tell anyone, but we are guilty of fortnighting.

Even so, we made the cut for drinks (6.30to 8.30 p.m.) at one of the big houses on the outskirts of the village, where our hostess, Victoria (‘everyone calls me Tor’) — whom we had met at a stile while she was walking her dogs one crisp and even morning — waltzed us round the room with such warmth and enthusiasm that we began to understand the ‘coming home’ sensation that born-again Christians experience after completing the Alpha Course at Holy Trinity Brompton.