Sorry, Liz, you’re wrong about sex in the country

Like all red-blooded members of the human race, there is nothing I like more than looking at pictures of Liz Hurley. So this month’s Tatler was a particular treat. There she was in wellies, accessorised by tulle and mousseline gowns in dusty baby-pink. The pictures ticked all the right boxes. Debo, Duchess of Devonshire, in ballgown and Wellingtons in the hen house at Chatsworth? Check! Muddy-hem-and-heaving-bodice costume dramas set in National Trust locations? Check! (The shoot was at Sezincote, Glos, a jewel of a mini stately modelled on a Rajasthan palace.)

Anyway, after I’d enjoyed the sight of Miss Hurley in her newly adopted habitat (she now lives on a 400-acre organic farm in the more Poshtershire end of the same county), and had a good look at the elegant stretch of withers our lovely filly was exposing in what was clearly the expensive shoot’s money-shot, I turned to the text.