As the old joke goes, how do you know if someone’s into cold-water swimming? Answer: they’ll tell you. These days, more and more of these people move among us. ‘Oh I simply can’t start my day without a dip,’ they cry, before listing multiple ailments that have mysteriously been improved by their new habit of flinging themselves into the nearest river or pond like a Labrador.

One dubious website extolling cold-water swimming’s virtues lists as many as 50 benefits. These include, but are not limited to: it boosts the immune system, increases one’s metabolism, promotes better sleep, helps the libido (how, exactly?), improves balance and memory, apparently, ‘because the anti-inflammatory effect… is beneficial in those experiencing dementia or other memory deficits.’ None of these are medically proven, I’d like to add.

I remain unconvinced by cold-water swimming. Even the phrase is silly. Performative. What’s wrong with simply ‘swimming’? It’s not as if you’re going to be ‘hot water’ swimming in your local river, is it? The kind of swimming I like is on a hot day, with a cool (ish) swimming pool nearby, along with a sunbed and a plentiful supply of dry towels. I’m not that interested in slipping into a body of water that’s murky, potentially hiding creatures, and which may make you ill.

‘It’s lovely once you’re in!’ comes the smug cry from someone who stripped off and waded straight in. Meanwhile, you stand there shivering on the bank, extremely unwilling to peel off your coat and even less willing to stick a body part, any body part, into the brown water that will — supposedly — leave you feeling so perky.

The last time I managed it was in Guernsey, where cold-water swimming is very popular. Little wonder, they have sensationally pretty beaches and coves which are, on the face of it, much more inviting than, say, a grubby canal.

And yet a mere toe in the water felt enough for frostbite. ‘Come on, it’s gorgeous!’ friends shouted from the sea where they were, naturally, already bobbing about like seals. I managed almost a minute in the water and then scurried out again. Sure, I felt a vague warm glow once I’d pulled my clothes back on again, but I can get the same sort of wellbeing from a glass of wine in the bath.

If you find yourself staying with friends who insist on this tiresome practice, you could either claim you’ve forgotten your swimmers (although in my experience those who are keen on this pastime are gung-ho sorts who won’t brook this kind of excuse). You could feign a heart condition, or a recent chest infection. Or, if you don’t want to feel a stick-in-the-mud, you could join in — but very briefly.

‘Is there a dryrobe I could borrow?’ you can ask, to make it sound as if you know what you’re talking about when it comes to the clobber.

Arrive at said location and strip off quickly, as if to denote enthusiasm. The quicker you get in, the quicker you can get out again. Try not to take half an hour to get in. That only prolongs the torture. Jump, if you can. A short sharp shock to the nether regions, but at least then you’re submerged. Splash around a bit, exclaim how lovely is it, make sure everyone sees you, and then you can claim cramp and hop out again. Bravo. Now go and have a hot shower.

It’s a sight that gladdens the heart at this time of year: hand-painted signs dotted around the country declaring that the local village fete is shortly to take place.

‘The village fete!’ you may think warmly. ‘How lovely!’ You imagine the sun shining, a tombola, perhaps a coconut shy, children laughing and, perhaps, even a rude vegetable competition. It’s a quaint and comforting image of England. There will be tea and cake and warm Pimms; there will be jars of homemade preserves and giant marrows. There will be lots and lots of dogs.

Fetes aren’t supposed to be grand. The more homespun the better. In parts of the Cotswolds now, you may come across very grand fetes indeed. No sticky jars of dubious chutney in Burford, thank you very much. But the lack of sophistication is part of the charm. When so much is so carefully manicured for social media, these days, here is an event where the less perfection the better. The bunting is tangled and faded; the PA system crackles and then gives up; the tombola prizes include several tins of peaches in syrup that went out of date during the war. The first one.

On the day itself, it will rain, but spirits will not be dampened. Locals will determinedly erect gazebos in the drizzle and remark every few minutes that it’s set to brighten up after lunch. Reader: it will not brighten up after lunch.

No matter. The show will go on. Competitive events will vary from village to village. Some will feature a tug of war. Wellie wanging, Splat the Rat, ferret racing, ‘Guess the marrow weight?’, ‘Guess the number of sweets in a jar’, and sponge throwing may also feature. These will be taken immensely seriously, and with an astonishing level of competitiveness when one considers that the prize is probably one of those sticky jars of chutney. Last year, I went to a fete in Sussex where there was a ‘naturally misshapen vegetable’ competition and first prize was awarded to a suggestive carrot. ‘Very amusing!’ the judges had scribbled on their judging card. Second prize went to an enormous squash that had warped like a French horn. ‘What a whopper!’ said that judging card. Magnificent.

There will probably be a dog competition, too. Again, categories will vary from village to village. Waggiest tail is likely; best six legs is now disapproved of by some in these body positive days, but you can still find it in certain villages — those which remain blissfully unaware that judging the lady vicar’s legs could be a cancelling offence.

You’ll probably be able to get a slightly charred sausage if you’re peckish, or an ice cream, or buy something that looks vaguely as if it might have been sat on from the cake stall.

At one juncture of the afternoon (the rain still coming down), someone will announce on the crackly tannoy that a lost child is safely in the first aid tent. Or a lost dog. But nobody will panic very much because nothing could possibly go wrong at a fete.

Splendid, wasn’t it? Same time again, next year.

The trouble with the British summer is you have to be prepared to dress for all eventualities. First, there's the weather: yes, it might be sunny, hot enough, in fact, to cause sunburn, but it might also rain or be unseasonably chilly. There might be hail, or a thunderstorm. If you're lucky, you might experience four of these in the space of four hours.

Second, there are the events: weddings, park picnics, Royal Ascot, Glorious Goodwood, Henley Festival — all of which require a different outfit that will survive the whole day. There aren't many things that will still look good by the time the last race as Ascot gallops around and you're staggering to catch the 6.32pm train to Clapham Junction (poor you) or a taxi (preferable). Or a helicopter (if you're really showing off). A helicopter, incidentally, makes your outfit choice much easier, because it’s quite hard to stagger up that hill from Ascot train station towards Carpark Number 1 in teetering heels, but less of a problem if you’re choppering in.

Stylist Sarah Kate Byrne says the trick to summer dressing is to reach for something timeless and elegant over anything too fashionable. The brands she suggests turning to include Isabel Manns, Claire Mischevani (a racecourse classic) and Beulah.

Lavinia Brennan, co-founder of the latter, says the palette this season is soft and romantic: ‘Sugar pinks, buttery yellows and icy blues.’ Beulah has just released a summer collaboration with Ginnie Chadwyck-Healey, which includes a very pretty white and blue linen skirt and shirt co-ord set, and a silk crepe de chine polka-dot dress with ruffled sleeves. Remember, natural fabrics are your friend; no nasty polyester which may whiff in the armpit after a long day in the Champagne tent.

If you’re looking for further inspiration, it’s worth having a gander at Ginnie’s website, The Fairground. It’s a curated site of independent brands and I generally want everything I see on there. So much more interesting than sifting through the Zara app, and it greatly reduces the risk of showing up at an event in the same dress as someone else. I once went to a wedding where eight women were in Rixo.

Despite my reservations over Zara and polyester, I do own a couple of Zara suits, both of which have done valiant work in the past few years. Obviously, we’re not supposed to be buying from fast fashion brands these days — buy less, buy better and all that — but suits, whether from Zara, The Fold or Knatchbull, are a girl's best friend. At a recent wedding, I wore a fuchsia suit with a silk slip underneath and when the temperature started to climb I was able to take my jacket off as the chaps began removing their morning coats.

I’m also a fan of renting an outfit because I can wear a posh frock that might have otherwise cost me hundreds and hundreds of pounds and give the impression that I'm a sort of high-roller.

Loan the Look is my favourite rental site because they have a Notting Hill studio you can pop into beforehand to check that said frock fits. Success stories include dresses from Emilia Wickstead and De La Vali.

Shoes. Often a nightmare when it comes to summer dressing because you need to be on your feet all day and battle with different terrains. Some insist on wearing wedges; others insist that wearing them borders on a hate crime. Recently, I went to a wedding in flat shoes. Revolutionary. You’re allowed to, these days, you know. I love the flat Penelope Chilvers espadrilles. And, whisper it, but have you had a look at the brand Sole Bliss? Their shoes are designed to be wildly comfortable, with three layers of memory foam and greater arch support, and I appreciate that that sounds a bit orthopaedic, but The Queen, Cate Blanchett, Julia Roberts and Olivia Colman wear them. I assume you don't require further endorsement?

P.s always pack an umbrella — even if the sun is blazing and there's not a cloud in the sky.

Here’s a scenario: a wedding invitation lands and the dress code says ‘hats very much encouraged’. Do you a) wear a hat? B) ignore it and go without?

These days, the latter is extremely common. I have been to weddings where the invitation stipulated as much, and the only people who’ve dutifully obeyed are the mother-of-the-bride and an elderly aunt.

I get it. Hats are expensive. Another item to think about on top of the frock and the shoes and the bag and the wedding present and the bed and breakfast. You may also feel self-conscious in a hat. How big do you go? Too big and you risk annoying everyone in church; too small and you’re veering dangerously into fascinator territory. I suspect this partly accounts for the recent rise in ‘fun’ Alice bands. A nod to a hat, you have something on your head, but you haven’t gone for the full caboodle. You can also greet people hello without garrotting them with your hat brim.

But come on, everyone, where’s your sense of occasion? Buck up. You spend much of your life in athleisure. Is it going to kill you to wear something fancy on your head for an afternoon? Of course, if you’re in the Royal Enclosure at Royal Ascot, men have to wear top hats and women something ‘with a minimum base diameter of 10cm’ (which essentially means no fascinators, please), although this year’s Ascot stylebook also featured a woman wearing a top hat, if that’s more your bag. But if you receive a wedding invitation encouraging a hat, why not?

Alice Hare, stylist and woman who knows what’s what when it comes to etiquette and matters of dress, doesn’t mince her words. ‘Do not be afraid of a f**k-off hat. Their scarcity now makes them all the more elegant. See: Andie MacDowell's chicer than chic black wedding guest hat in Four Weddings and a Funeral. There's a reason she gets chatted up by everyone at that wedding and the hat is key to that.’ A hat, in other words, can add allure, elegance, may give you an air of sophistication above those who’ve plumped for Alice bands, which smack slightly of school imho.

They don’t have to be expensive, either. If you can afford a Philip Treacy or Stephen Jones, splendid. Laura Cathcart makes sensationally pretty hats if you can stretch to the £500 mark. But, points out Alice, ‘couture milliner Lisa Tan has just collaborated with Coast on a range of hats around £100, while Edwina Ibbotson just did a collab with River Island.’ The latter includes a particularly jolly polka-dot boater for £59, and boaters aren’t a bad option if you’re nervous about hats. Soignée, but not too ostentatious. Or, adds Alice, take an old hat to VV Rouleaux in Marylebone and they will update it with trimmings to match your outfit.

As for wearing them, well, ‘if the hat has an elastic band to secure it to the head (most do), cover that with your hair or make sure the band is the same colour as your hair at least, and secure it with hair grips so it doesn't fly off in the wind.’ In the olden days, the general rule was that the hat would be in place for the ceremony, and then stay on until the mother-of-the-bride removed hers, likely just before sitting down to eat. By and large, that still stands today. You can keep it on for the reception (you want to get your money’s worth, right?), but whip it off for supper. If hats have been encouraged, there should be somewhere in the marquee to hang or peg said hat. Just remember to collect it at the end of the evening, before staggering off to your taxi.

Right, let's start with some tough love: I’m sorry, but there’s no cheat’s way through a break-up. It’s awful and it will be awful for a while. But then, one day, it will seem less awful. And then it’ll probably feel awful again for a bit, but then, suddenly, less awful.

It goes on like this for some time — a rollercoaster of emotions — depending on how long the relationship was and other factors. I did tell you it was tough.

If someone, in the early stages of your separation, tells you that it’s better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all, try not to kick them. Trite sayings (with due respect to Alfred, Lord Tennyson) can feel incredibly irritating in the weeds of a split.

Other people might tell you that it’s better to be the dumped than to be the dumpee, but I’m not sure this is true. Both can be woeful. When you are given half-baked advice or support, the best thing to do is smile and nod. Most people, however cackhanded, are only trying to help.

After my last break-up, wonderful friends rallied forwards with many suggestions: drink, don’t drink, eat junk food, only eat healthy food; watch bad telly; go for long walks; meditate; run; take melatonin for sleep; get back out there, and so on and so on. The truth is that some of these things might help, but some of them won’t. It’s a very subjective situation. However, I’m really not sure drinking is useful. After half a glass of wine last time round, I texted my former partner and told him that I missed him. He replied asking how best to go about retrieving the coat he'd left at my friend’s house. I stopped drinking for a few weeks after that.

Generally, a no-contact rule is the best way forward. Initially, it will feel impossible. A week? Are you joking? But slowly, unbelievably slowly, this will get easier. You'll wake up one day and realise that you've gone an evening without thinking about them; and a few weeks after that, a whole day. If there are children involved, or if you’re divorcing and there are legalities to arrange, no contact is obviously trickier. But minimal, pragmatic contact is still advisable.

In Belle Burden’s hit, au courant memoir, Strangers, she reveals that her husband asked her to make him a sandwich after telling their children that the marriage was over. Don’t do this.

If children are involved, don’t grumble about your ex directly to them or in earshot. It’s deeply confusing, if you’re a small person, to have your life suddenly split in two. More confusing still to discover that the two people you loved most suddenly hate one another. My parents were very mindful about this.

Try very, very hard to avoid looking your ex up on social media. Consider blocking them, not only because then they can’t see your profile, but crucially because you can’t see theirs. Again, this may seem inconceivable in the immediate aftermath of a break-up, but psychologically it’s a huge help.

If you’re looking for a therapist to help — even just a few sessions to get you through the first few weeks — ask for recommendations. It’s bandit country on the internet when it comes to therapists. Don’t make yourself feel worse by handing over too much money to someone entirely unqualified.

Lastly, have you considered a dog?

Ah, the Home Counties. The bucolic sound of a robin, a lawnmower and perhaps the gentle thwack of a cricket ball on a bat. Splendid.

The etymology of the term isn’t absolutely clear. Some say it derived from a historic definition used by the law courts in London that dealt with the counties closest to London; others that they were so-called because they allowed commuters to schlep into London from their more rural homes for work.

Their definition can also be highly controversial, these days. Do we include Cambridgeshire or Bedfordshire, or is that taking things too far?

If we only include the counties that surround London, that counts out Sussex. Hmm, troubling.

Here, to avoid argument and to be inclusive, we’ve included almost all of them in descending order, bar Dorset, which some argue these days is part Home County, but that seems downright silly to us when Dorset is clearly the West Country.

1. West Sussex The best Home County because it’s where I grew up. You get a bit of everything here: chalky hills, pebbly coastline, pretty towns (Petworth; Arundel), smashing pubs and an excellent theatre in Chichester. Also, Goodwood, and plenty of polo. The clear winner, no arguments
2. Kent The Garden of England, they say, and it is very lovely if you overlook a few dodgy bits around Ashford. Madly foodie, too. The best oysters I ever had were at The Sportsman in Seasalter. Also, Kent is increasingly taking the French on with their wines  
3. Berkshire I spent an entire dinner party recently listening to friends dissect which parts of Berkshire were best for which schools. This was quite boring, but I think we have to put it in third place because so many young families seem to be flocking here from London. Plus, there’s an excellent independent bookshop in Hungerford
4. Hampshire The New Forest is sensational on a sunny day
5. Buckinghamshire Lovely walking in the Chilterns
6. Essex It’s very ageing to sneer at Essex, now. Actually, parts of it are desperately pretty and the train links to London really are excellent
7. Surrey Full of commuter-belt monstrosities called things like The Old Coach House (built 2004) and Cherry Tree House (cherry tree removed for kitchen extension), with security gates at the front and water features in the gardens. Although it does have more outposts of Waitrose than any other county in Britain (19)
8. Bedfordshire I don’t actually know anybody who lives in Bedfordshire
9. Hertfordshire Or here
10. Cambridgeshire A particularly dodgy ex-boyfriend came from Cambridge
11. East Sussex In last place because it’s not West Sussex and therefore deeply inferior. Although it has a few very decent pubs, and I do like a walk and a game of pooh sticks in Ashdown Forest, used by A.A. Milne as his inspiration for the Five Hundred Acre Wood

Good news: it’s getting warmer. Bad news: feet are coming out. Feet and potentially other body parts. Of course the question of what to wear so you don’t make your colleagues snigger depends on where you work. Corporate lawyer? No sliders. Tech bro? Well, I’d still humbly suggest no sliders.

‘Sandals are never acceptable in the office,’ says stylist Alice Hare. ‘I don’t need to see your hairy toe in a meeting. There’s a reason we never see the Royals in sandals.’

Alice, something of a Miranda Priestly when it comes to office dressing, says that men should avoid linen shirts in the office: ‘They’re just not smart enough, even if it’s 40°C.’

In truth, most offices these days are now so air-conditioned they’re only fractionally warmer than a fridge, so you don’t need to panic that morning and dress as if you’re off to the beach. The commute may be sticky, but the majority of your day won’t be. Dress for the most important meeting or event of your day. Are shorts really appropriate if you’ve got an 11 o’clock with that potential investor? Please stick to trousers.

Ultimately, you don’t want to be that fleshy, sitting close to colleagues or acquaintances revealing bits of you that feel quite intimate: knees; toes; too much thigh; upper arms that haven’t seen daylight for months. A jacket or blazer is a handy item to keep close.

In fact, blazers are generally your friend when it comes to the office because they’re such an easy way to elevate (fashion word klaxon) the rest of your outfit. I have a couple from the high street that are handy because they can go in the washing machine, but the Hutton (in linen, it’s allowed in blazer form) from With Nothing Underneath will serve you for many more years. Pair it with a t-shirt — the blazer means it still screams that you mean business — trousers and a pair of Mary Janes. Simple is easier when you're standing in front of your wardrobe at 6am. Also: clean shoes please, and no sportswear and crop tops.

Controversial linen shirts aside, natural fabrics are your friend. I own a black silk Sonia Rykiel dress which has done valiant corporate service for more than a decade. It’s breathable and also, crucially, a colour which — without being too indelicate — doesn’t reveal sweat patches.

Some years ago, I bought a dress from Cos in a fabulous silky, but not actually silk, green which I wore proudly to the office before a date, and only discovered when it was too late that I had to keep my arms clamped to my sides all day.

Learn from my mistakes.

First up, a little tip on pronunciation. It’s not As-cot, it’s more As-coot, as in soot. That’s how to sound as if you’ve been going for years. Also, you need to understand the car park hierarchy. The smartest place to park and set up one’s picnic is Car Park Number 1, where those who’ve been going to Ascot for years park their Range Rovers. Other 4x4s are available.

Arrivals here start early as everyone finds their allotted place and unfurls the furniture and food from the boot. We’re not talking a mere picnic blanket. There will be tables, folding chairs and tablecloths. There may be gazebos, pitched hopefully to protect racegoers from the sun, but more usually to keep off the drizzle. Set them up, but be mindful not to spill into the space of whoever’s parking beside you. Terrible faux-pas to allow your garden chairs to encroach on their patch of grass. Wars have been launched for less.

Nor are we talking M&S sandwiches when it comes to the grub. There will be cold beef fillet, cooked in the Aga that morning and swaddled in tinfoil like a newborn baby. There may be a side of poached salmon. Coronation chicken (the secret ingredient is peach yoghurt, says a long-time Ascot attendee who always takes coronation chicken) is another popular choice. Some sort of picnic centrepiece, in other words.

Don’t forget the condiments, said in an ironic tone, to denote the word is faintly infra dig. Horseradish, hollandaise, mustard. There will be lots of things in jars and salt crystals in a very tiny Tupperware. A quiche, perhaps, and warm baby potatoes served from a thermos. There will also be Champagne (and plenty of it) from a cool box. A few years ago, when I last went with a friend who worked for Berry Bros, there was an ice-cold Jeroboam. Deeply civilised.

And then, just as you’ve relaxed back into your folding chair and you’re thinking another glass and sliver of beef might be in order, it’s up and across the road for the first race. Of course, this doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll actually see a horse. Plenty of people simply mill around the enclosure and don’t bother much with the racing. But technically you are there for the racing, so it’s good form to show a smidgen of interest before you all come back to the car park after the last race and tuck into tea.

The traffic will be murder if you leave now, so you might as well hang about for a while. A fruit cake and coffee from a flask; a homemade flapjack; a glass of wine. Some attempt a cheeseboard, but this can turn manky in the boot of a warm car. If you’re in the mood for music by this point, don’t blast it too loud from the car. Again, be mindful of your neighbours. You don’t want to be cast out of Car Park One next year, do you?

It’s jolly unfair, really. One day you’re the captain of rugby at school; the next, your hair starts falling out. Women obviously have it quite hard with various biological challenges, but male pattern baldness isn’t much fun either. Some of my friends went from lustrous-haired Goliaths to Prince Edward, seemingly overnight, while they were still in their early 20s.

One way to deal with it, of course, is to simply shave your head (see Jason Statham) and thereby avoid that dodgy combover period where the bare scalp is 'disguised' by two or three strands of hair. Another way is simply to carry on like, well, Prince Edward and try to manfully pull off the bald look.

Or, there’s the hair transplant. An expensive surgical procedure, yes, but in recent years, a more common one. Wayne Rooney might have been the original poster boy, but others to have undergone the knife include Robbie William, Jimmy Carr, James Nesbit and various Sloaney chaps that I’m much too discreet to mention by name.

My friend Jenn George, beauty director at SheerLuxe, tells me that the go-to man in London is Christopher D’Souza on Upper Wimpole Street. ‘I think men are still so secretive about it (compared to women and tweakments), but less and less so. The procedures are brilliant, these days — you’re in and out in a day; hide away for only a few days; hat for a couple of weeks, then new, natural-looking hairline.’ Jenn's top tip for men planning on taking the surgical plunge is to start wearing a baseball cap ‘months in advance — so it doesn’t look odd that they suddenly start wearing them in recovery.’

If you can afford a transplant, and losing hair bothers you, I’m of the ‘why not?’ persuasion. Who wouldn’t want a full head of hair like Paul Anthony Kelly as JFK Jr in Disney’s Love Story? Phwoar.

The remaining question is: do you want to talk about it after you've done it? Hmm. Tricky one. It’s not unlike ‘being on the pen’, in some respects. If you’re taking Ozempic, or Mounjaro, or another fat-loss drug, the results may be quite obvious. It doesn’t mean you have to discuss it with anyone, but some people may suspect; some may ask; some may crack jokes.

Same with hair transplants. You could be upfront — which I would probably advise. If you come out with it and own it, then it will likely save you the predictable and tedious jokes. (‘Had a nice time in Turkey, mate?’) You’ve done a brave thing. Be proud of it.

And what should you do if you see a friend who’s clearly had a transplant? Do you mention it? The jury is out. Some say you must; others say you should only comment on it if they bring it up first. ‘You look great!’ is a suitably catch-all phrase to deploy here if they don’t raise the subject, a tacit acknowledgment that they’ve had something done without making them feel self-conscious about it.

One pal says that he did had to say something when a friend of his arrived for dinner with a bleeding scalp. So, yes, I do see that addressing it in such a situation might be necessary. Even if it’s a simple ‘Are you OK?’

Remember, a baseball hat is your friend.

I will admit, I went through a phase of setting ‘funny’ out of offices. We’re talking a decade ago or so.

‘I’m currently sipping a piña colada on a sunbed. I’ll respond when I reply.’ That kind of thing. I shudder with horror now, but we’ve all done silly things when young.

A couple of years ago, while loitering on a Tube platform, I observed that British Airways had launched a new campaign – ‘Take Your Holiday Seriously’ – featuring billboards of similarly ‘amusing’ out of office replies.

‘Hi there, I have received your email. I have printed it off. I’m now using it to light flaming cocktails for the entire bar. Best, Lucy,’ said one.

‘Hi there, I’m out of office atm. Replying to your email is on my list of things to do. Just below licking a jellyfish,’ said another. You get the point.

While I applaud the sentiment of taking one’s holiday seriously and not remaining a slave to the old inbox, these days I think such replies are tiresome. Sorry! Life’s too short; time is too precious to agonise over what your out of office says. Straightforward is the way to go for everyone involved. ‘I’m currently out of the office. I will return on such-and-such a date and respond then.’ That sort of thing.

Of course, everyone’s looking at their emails almost all the time, nowadays, even while drifting about the South of France or Puglia in August. There are very few places, pockets of Wiltshire aside, which don’t have 5G, so it’s a nonsense, by and large, to pretend that you’re not seeing emails at all. But at least setting an out of office lets the sender know you won’t necessarily be responding for a week or so, and if it’s urgent they can try someone else in your organisation if you’ve given an alternative contact (please check that this is OK with your colleague before you merrily paste their email address into your out of office (OOO)).

Some take a more aggressive approach, not only declaring that they’re away, but that all emails will be automatically deleted during that period, and that anything important will need to be re-sent when they return. This is irritating, in my honest opinion, because it’s creating more work for the sender, who now needs to remember to send the same email down the line. If you’re taking a sabbatical for several months, or maternity leave, this makes more sense. It’s unlikely you’ll need to read an email sent in March when you return in September. But it’s quite self-important if you’re only hopping to Mallorca for a week.

Talking of self-importance, I wonder, too, about the necessity of setting an out of office if you’re away from your desk for a mere afternoon. Are you the Prime Minister? Will the sky fall in if you don’t get back to someone before the following day? And where does this performative busyness end? ‘I’m currently getting a coffee from the canteen downstairs and will respond on my return,' perhaps, or ‘I’m currently on the loo and will reply — with nice clean hands — when I’m back.’ If you’re out of the office for a day or more, fine. If it’s less, it’s a touch pompous.

Finally, ‘annual leave.’ This suggests you’re in the military. I’m not saying you have to state that you’re on anything so wanton as ‘holiday’ in your out of office. Good heavens no, we can’t have anything thinking that you’re enjoying yourself. But you could just say you’re ‘away’ until a certain date. Why not? A little air of mystique never hurt anyone.

When it comes to the recent matter of Chappell Roan and an 11-year-old fan, who’s in the right? A brief recap if you’ve missed the story. The American singer was enjoying her breakfast in a Sao Paolo hotel when an 11-year-old fan called Ada, staying in the same hotel and who just so happens to be Jude Law’s daughter, walked past her idol’s table. She didn’t say anything, supposedly, it was just to smile and check it was her. Drama ensued moments later, however, when Chappell's bodyguard appeared at Ada’s table, and ticked off her parents for allowing the girl to ‘disrespect’ and ‘harass’ the star. Ada’s step-father, Brazilian footballer, Jorginho, took to Instagram to vent about this overbearing incident; Chappell later denied it on her own account.

Phew. What a drama. Poor young Ada, and yet it must be pretty exhausting, if you’re a celebrity, to be constantly gawped at. Can a star not enjoy their hotel buffet breakfast in peace?

I have some sympathy with the celebs, though, because — without wishing to sound like a terrible show-off — I’ve been in public with the odd famous person before, and the behaviour of some people around them is extraordinary.

Once, at a restaurant, a young lad rushed up to a famous sports star (I’m not going to tell you who, sorry, because that would be vulgar and name-droppy).

‘Can I have a selfie?’ the teenager demanded, as we ate.

‘Hello, how are you? What’s your name?’ the star responded, turning in his seat and politely making the point that this boy had demanded something from him without any social niceties. I understand that it’s hugely daunting to approach someone famous, someone you admire, but it’s also extremely rude to demand a piece of them, a photo, without even bothering with a ‘hello.’

On another occasion, in a pub with an actor, I noticed people beyond us sneakily trying to take a video or photos of him, pretending that they were photographing something else. This is also pretty rude and tiresome, especially if said famous person is with their family. And is that grainy photo taken from across the restaurant going to be any good? Almost certainly not.

I quizzed a friend about this, and he said he said the general rule is don’t approach anyone if they’re with their children. Young children of celebrities can, understandably, find their parent being harassed confusing, and become protective. Also, don’t bother anyone in a restaurant. They’re trying to eat; they’re really not ‘on duty’.

Be polite and say hello before you hold your phone up for a picture. Understand that some people may not be in the mood. Other celebrities have a blanket ‘no selfies’ policy. If there was any doubt over this, that is entirely their call, not yours.

Don’t bother them for too long, either. A greeting and sentence or two about how much you admire them will suffice. Although nerves can of course get the better of you, here. A few years ago, at Chelsea Flower show, I spied Anna Maxwell Martin and felt the sudden urge to tell her how brilliant she was. I didn’t want a photo; I just wanted to offer my appreciation. So, steeling myself, I walked up to her.

‘HelloAnnaIjustwantedtotellyouhowmuchIlovedyouasReganinKingLearattheNationalafewyearsago,’ I gabbled, so fast that the words were barely decipherable.

Anna’s eyes widened in panic at this deranged woman in front of her. ‘Er…thank you very much,’ she offered back, whereupon I felt so embarrassed I turned and fled. I’m not sure Anna would recall this encounter, but I think of it reasonably often and feel a full body cringe at the memory. So, if you see someone famous out and about, think about it first. In fact, do you need to bother them, or is admiring from afar, perhaps, the safer option?

For some time now, I’ve been anxious about putting my socks on.

Am I doing it wrong?

The cool kids, I’ve observed — let’s say those under 30 — have their socks on show. Similarly, almost everyone in my gym wears their ribbed socks pulled up over their leggings, as if they’re in a 1980s Jane Fonda class. My anxiety is sparked because those of us that are millennial-aged grew up thinking that having our socks on display was lame and that our feet must be encased in little trainer socks which must, on no account, be visible.

There are, of course, chaps, often to be found in Brentwood on a Friday night, who insist on wearing their loafers without any socks at all. Meanwhile, Paul Mescal (30) is very fond of pairing his Gucci loafers with white ankle socks. If you’re a member of a gentleman’s club and of a more advanced age, you may wear them very high up indeed, albeit discreetly underneath your Anderson & Sheppard suit trousers.

So, what is the right way to wear a sock, these days?

Alice Hare, stylist and holder of very firm sock opinions, says that any sock which cannot be pulled up to the mid-ankle is merely the pretence of a sock. There goes my whole sock drawer, in other words, because it’s littered with trainer socks, aka little feet bags. What would happen if someone saw our sock poking over our shoe? Would the sky fall in? No idea. For some reason, many of us are fearful of it.

The good news is that, since socks on show are back, we no longer have to shuffle around with cold ankles. Or stop every now and then to hitch up a little trainer sock that has wormed its way to the toes. Women, Alice instructs, should look to the likes of Comme Si, Hermani and Pairs ‘for ribbed socks in party-at-your-ankles shades to wear with loafers and Mary Janes. Or head to Italian brand Maria La Rosa for the ultimate in status symbol cocktail socks — their pearl-trimmed red pair is all kinds of Wuthering Heights.’

A note of caution: these will set you back around £100 a pair. Cheaper, everyday ribbed pairs, says Alice, can be sourced, like so many items, from Uniqlo.

‘For the gold standard in proper men’s socks, as well as New & Lingwood and Cordings, Campbell’s of Beauly have a wonderful striped selection,’ she adds. Novelty socks, it should be noted, are never acceptable, although Alice does approve of New & Lingwood’s skull-print numbers (which regularly sell out). ‘A flash of the former poking out of a loafer when a man sits down is my equivalent of a six pack, in fact.’

Having recently visited the Pope’s sock shop, Gammarelli, while in Rome, I would add that this is another terrific place to buy immensely elegant, silk or cotton socks in a vibrant range of colours. Papal red, if you fancy it, but also in blues, greens and purples. They make excellent presents if you’re in the Italian capital any time soon, because the assistants wrap them beautifully in tissue and boxes. Although if you can’t make it to Rome itself, they also offer mail order. Dead smart, wearing silk papal socks, no matter how old you are. 

And we’re off. Nearly. Cheltenham is almost upon us. But what to wear? It’s not Royal Ascot, but it’s still quite the week and you don’t want to embarrass yourself in the Guinness Tent.

Here are a few (clothing) tips. For horse tips you’ll have to ask someone else.

1. Think warmth. It’s March. Wind whips around that racecourse like a tornado. Thermals are your friend. ‘Thermal tights over thermal knickers,’ advises Georgia Toffolo, who says Cheltenham is her favourite week of the year and takes dressing for it with due seriousness. ‘And disposable hand and feet warmers, like you use for skiing'
2. You don’t want bare limbs. See above. There will be women in tiny miniskirts, but they may regret this sartorial decision by the first race
3. Skirt suits, on the other hand, are dead chic. ‘I love a skirt suit,’ says Isabel Spearman, ‘and will probably wear a beloved Cefinn (now closed, but available to shop second hand) one in a beautiful blue — it feels modern and (importantly) comfortable'
4. Tweed. Do not be afraid of looking like a tweed factory has thrown up on you. Tweed coat, tweed trousers, tweed waistcoat and so on. The Cheltenham look, in recent years, has become Peaky Blinders (those baker boy hats) meets Toad of Toad Hall. You will blend in wearing almost any form of tweed
5. And/or, look to the brand Holland Cooper. Its eponymous founder, Jade, is another who takes dressing for this week with due care and attention, and her label features long trench coats, trousers, and warm jerseys with gold button detailing that makes them look a bit more upmarket than your average jersey, all of which would work in the paddock
6. Very bright colours are more Ascot. The colour scheme for Cheltenham is mud, really. Think browns and beiges or more muted colours if you don’t want to stick out
7.  Hats. I like a brown trilby, which can look especially dashing on women. Very handy to hide under if it’s raining, and it means you’ll worry less about your hair. Mine came from Oliver Brown, but Holland Cooper do them too. Or, says Georgia, buy a faux-fur bucket hat for a fiver from eBay. ‘Very Camilla-esque,’ she says approvingly, in reference to the Queen. Although she adds that Princess Anne is a good source of fashion inspiration for this week — think thick woollen overcoats, scarves, suede boots
8. Ideally flat shoes or block heels only. You’ll spend a lot of time on your feet, probably hurrying between the paddock, the bookies, and the grandstand. If you’re very posh, you may be in a box, or the Turf, but you’ll still probably want to escape a couple of times and mingle with the masses. This is not the moment for stilettos
9. Don’t panic, you’ll be quite safe in Granny’s fur. Nobody’s going to lob a bucket of paint on your mink stole at Cheltenham

It’s come to my attention that standards are slipping. At a performance in the West End recently, halfway through the third act, I noticed a commotion a few rows in front of me. A woman was vaping, sending thick clouds of smoke into the air, and the people behind her were flapping their hands to dispense her exhalations so they could see the stage.

An usher hissed from the sidelines, but she continued. The performance was subsequently stopped when it became apparent that this woman was very drunk, head lolling around like a water balloon on a stick, and another usher and a security guard appeared at the end of the row to hustle her out.

Only a week before, I was watching another production when I felt the surprising and unpleasant sensation of popcorn cascading down my back. Certain theatres now flog big buckets of the stuff, just like in the cinema, and the man behind me had tipped his over. Accidentally, of course, but still. You don’t get that sort of behaviour at the Royal Opera House, do you? Meanwhile, a friend reports that she was recently distracted from a play by a nearby woman who’d darted to a branch of McDonald’s during the interval and sat through the second half chomping it.

It’s a tricky one because, these days, theatre often gets it in the neck for being elitist and stuffy. For being too white and too middle class. For not being inviting or encouraging enough to those who might be intimidated by it. And yet, I’m not sure that it needs to be so egalitarian that people feel relaxed enough to eat a box of chicken nuggets during a performance of Othello.

Dress codes don’t bother me hugely. My grandmother, a keen theatre goer, would have been horrified by the idea of someone going to the National in, say, trainers. But times change, some performances are very long, so go in what you’re comfortable in. It doesn’t need to be black tie, although bear in mind that in certain, extremely cramped West End theatres you may be quite close to a stranger. And do you want to brush bare arms with a stranger? Exactly.

But eating. Hmmm. I’m going to be sterner here and say ideally not during the performance. An ice-cream at the interval, fine. Splendid, in fact. I’ll have a salted caramel. Drinking is allowed, so long as you don’t have cubes of ice noisily clinking around your glass like it’s a cocktail party. But bags of sweets and chocolate that rustle can be very trying for others, as can showers of popcorn. And really, really, nothing that’s going to stink out those around you either. If you’re craving a Big Mac, have one before or afterwards.

A final word on phones. Do you need to send that email halfway through a scene? My other half whispered crossly at a woman who was tapping away at her phone throughout The Lehman Trilogy, only for the woman to reply: ‘Go f**k yourself.’ Why bother spending £60 or more on a ticket to see something, only to sit and scroll? You can do that in your bedroom. During a bad performance of something, I’m often desperate to know the time so I can work out how long is left and when I can get home to bed. But I still wouldn’t get my phone out. If you want to know the time that badly, consider a watch.

I often wonder whether it’s worth it. Is any holiday worth this, I think, as I stand in an airport security line at 6:34AM behind someone who’s decided to wear a safari jacket for his journey, holding everyone up at the security belt as he pats down 93 pockets and empties them. Sure, when you eventually get to Provence/Puglia/Paxos, it’s blissful, but you’ve suffered like Odysseus to get there.

Why must social niceties be abandoned at the airport? Normal rules are inexplicably suspended while wheelie-bags roam like feral animals, trays are shoved, and people mysteriously forget everything they’ve ever learned about queuing. Those with lounge access shouldn’t be too smug, either. I’ve seen feet in seats in lounges, and peculiar combinations of complimentary food piled high on plates (scrambled eggs and a spoonful of hummus, sir? That is bold).

Some years ago, in the lounge at Nairobi airport, I even witnessed a gang of hooligans, drunk on free champagne, playing a game of hide and seek among the armchairs and sofas, passing the time until their late-night British Airways flight to Heathrow. Admittedly, I was one of those hooligans, but in my defence it was some time ago. And the lounge was relatively empty.

Partly, of course, the decline in behaviour has been encouraged by the airlines treating us so badly, as if cattle, herded from one pen to the next. But I don’t believe we should lower our standards simply because Ryanair has. So consider these pointers a gentle reminder that manners need not be suspended when you arrive at Departures. 

• Do not wear a safari jacket to travel in. Even if you’re going on safari. And if you do insist on wearing a jacket with multiple pockets through the airport, please ensure that they’re emptied long before you arrive at the front of the security queue
• While we’re on the subject: dress. Ryanair recently declared that it was time to stop travelling in jeans, encouraging everyone to travel in tracksuits, or ‘comfies’ as others have dubbed them. Think Bella Hadid or Kendall Jenner, flying to or from LA — tracksuit, sunglasses, extremely capacious tote bag. If you’re not Bella Hadid or Kendall Jenner, is this a look you can pull off? Lumberjack-reality-star turned USA transport secretary Sean Duffy recently called for the ‘return of civility’ at airports with a campaign called ‘The Golden Age of Travel Starts With You.’ Amen. In my honest opinion, you can’t go wrong with a loose pair of trousers (Me+Em have plenty of options) and a little cashmere jersey
• If you’re taking a wheelie-bag with you as cabin luggage, do not allow it to drift behind you as you might a chaotic dog on a lead, running over other people’s feet and potentially taking out small children. Wheel with courtesy
• Do not forcefully shove your tray between others at the security belt. Pay attention, wait for a gap between them and move decisively. Pick your tray up and put it back on the pile at the other end, too. This is called manners
• Do not liberally douse yourself in competing fragrances as you stroll through Duty Free. This is likely to be unpleasant for whoever you sit next to on the plane
• Hen and stag parties: do you need that 63^rd drink in the airport Wetherspoons?
• Stand on the right of all moving walkways, please
• Try not to arrive at the front of the queue for passport control, or the gate, and decide that’s the moment to start rummaging in your bag for your paperwork because it may make the people behind you want to commit murder
• Have your passport or boarding pass in your hand, or on your phone screen
• Listen properly to the announcements at the gate. Do you have speedy boarding? Are you in a row they’ve actually called for? Don’t barge your way to the front of the queue otherwise and then become outraged when they turn you back
• At baggage reclaim, if you steal the plum spot of a fellow passenger waiting patiently, or heave your bag off the carousel and thwack anyone’s shins with your suitcase, I hope all your belongings are stolen while you’re away. Happy holidays!

Uh oh. Trouble in the Home Counties. The Haslemere branch of Waitrose is temporarily closed for refurbishment, not expected to open again until early March, and it’s causing immense distress in the area. No Waitrose? But how can anyone eat? Where else can locals buy Nocellara olives and Isle of Wight tomatoes? True, they can still get online deliveries, but it’s not quite as joyful as an actual trip to Waitrose, is it?

Go to a Waitrose and you can meander up and down the aisles at will, filling your trolley with posh tuna, cavolo nero and those nice shortbread biscuits. You know, all the essentials. Order online and you risk getting the bruised avocados and broken Burford eggs. Of course there are other supermarkets available, but one hardly wants to be seen shopping in them. Still, for the time being, Haslemere locals may have to look elsewhere, so here’s our guide to the other options:

• Sainsbury’s Perfectly decent but everyone knows it's a step or two down from Waitrose. Remember to take your Waitrose bags for life, so everyone else there knows this is only a temporary situation and you’re a cut above them
• Tesco The Polish builders seem to love it. Has a very well-stocked world food section, apparently
• Marks and Spencer We don’t eat ready meals as a rule. Nasty processed stuff, is it any wonder that this country has an obesity crisis? But the M&S ones are different, they’re not really ready meals. Delicious chicken curry. Almost as good as the one we had in Jaipur last year
• Aldi Don’t tell anyone, but we bought all of Poppy’s wedding champagne from Aldi. We simply instructed the waiters to hold their napkins over the label while pouring so the guests could tell. It’s awfully convincing. You’d never know it wasn’t Taittinger
• Lidl Useful for bits and bobs from Europe. German meats, Italian salamis, halfway decent burrata, that sort of thing. And their croissants aren’t bad. It’s not quite the same as being on the continent, but jolly close. Useful at Christmas-time too, for cake and panettone
• Morrisons Didn’t we drive past one up north once, on the way to Scotland?
• Co-op Frightfully tangy salt and vinegar crisps, and handy for the papers on the weekend, but the Co-op doesn’t sell much else you could possibly serve at a dinner party, and you’d be a bit embarrassed to be caught shopping in one
• Iceland Ha ha, trick question. This isn’t a supermarket, it’s the one Donald Trump wants to invade.
• Costco Oh yes, we send the cook there sometimes. Useful for shoot lunches, and loo roll
• Asda Don’t be silly

The trouble is, I first went skiing when I was 13, already too tall and round with puppy fat. After wobbling to the top of the nursery slope in Val D’Isere (is there a more hateful invention than the button lift?), I managed to get off, but immediately toppled sideways on my grandmother, flattening her on the snow. My grandmother was an immensely chic woman who’d lived in Paris for much of her life, and skied like an Olympian. But she damaged her hip in that fall and never skied again.

It was an inauspicious start, and I soon learned that I hated the activity. I hated ski school. I hated falling over, I hated the noise my skis made when they skittered over a patch of ice, I hated the churning of my stomach as the funicular climbed and the Frenchmen around me rushed towards the doors when they opened. I hated the three-year-olds who zipped past my legs, I hated the temperature, I hated taking half an hour to get undressed for a pee, and another half an hour to put all those layers back on again. I really, really hated anyone who suggested ‘One more run before lunch?’

I do understand, however, that some people like skiing. Weirdos, if you ask me, but each to their own. And it’s that time of year again. ‘We’re off to Courchevel for a week,’ says someone. ‘Oh lovely, we’re going to Klosters, this year.’ Real diehards may talk of going to Japan. ‘Incredible powder in Japan,’ a man once said to me at a drinks party, wildly misjudging his audience.

Or there’s America. Vail or Whistler, for instance. It’s just less convenient than nipping to Les Trois Vallées. And also, there remains a certain sort of English chap who refuses to wear a helmet while skiing, and he’d be safer off on the slopes of Europe. Less litigious.

These sorts, the sorts who are really good at skiing (show offs) probably started when they were small children. They were first taken aged three, put into ski school, and have now become adults who view a mogul field as ‘fun’. They like going off-piste. Their idea of a thrill is being dropped to a glacier from a helicopter. They can have a long lunch at La Fruitière and merrily manage a couple of runs afterwards.

Some will stay in hotels. L'Apogée in Courchevel if they’re really swanky. Or the W in Verbier if it’s a girl’s weekend. Others will have chalets. But be careful if a friend invites you to come and stay in their chalet. We’re not necessarily talking luxury, here. Not necessarily open fires and a hot tub on the balcony. It could be bunk beds, electric showers and a very slow bus to the slopes every morning, your nose pressed up against an Italian.

My parents made a terrible mistake, opting to go skiing for their honeymoon, but staying in a cheap and cheerful chalet with various other guests and a strict seating plan for breakfast and dinner. Well, it was the 1970s. On day two, Mum dislocated her knee and hobbled down to breakfast the following morning, only to see the more mature couple on their shared table share knowing looks. ‘Typical honeymooning couple, at it all night!’ Fred and Edna must have muttered to one another afterwards.

Because of course that’s the other thing about skiing. It’s terrifically dangerous. So you'll not only exclaim at the cost every time you buy a hot chocolate, and come back both bankrupt and a stone heavier because even though you tottered down a few slopes you are — after a week away — 90% cheese fondue, but you'll also risk death or very serious injury each morning you set off.

Still, it’s lovely, a week’s skiing, isn’t it?

Right, that’s it. January. Time to shift a few pounds. The stilton bulge is real, so, off to the gym, right? Wrong. Nobody grand would be caught dead in a gym. Sweat? Deliberately? In public? Don’t be so disgusting.

Posh sorts don’t exercise on purpose. Exercise is generally a by-product of another activity. One friend, let’s call him Max, doesn’t even own a pair of trainers. Only plimsolls for the odd game of tennis. Tennis, you see, isn’t deemed exercise, but a social activity. And if you happen to burn a few calories in the process, well, what a happy coincidence.

Other permissible forms of movement include walking the dog. Walking the dog is the most acceptable form of exercise, really, but never hiking (why do the Americans insist on calling a perfectly ordinary walk a hike?). The walks can be long or short, alone with the dog or more socially with other people, and probably in gumboots at this time of year, not in walking boots that suggest you may be a rambler. Rambling is not posh because it’s often carried out across other people’s land. Need to lose that excess Christmas weight? Simply increase the length of the dog walk. Stalking comes under this bracket too, because it’s essentially a very long walk up and down a hill.

Talking of which, shooting is an acceptable exercise, because it involves being outside, walking and lifting your arm up and down. You may also have to bend over, depending on who’s picking up the birds. Hunting and riding, obviously. Very good for those inner thighs. Fly-fishing? Marvellous for the core and biceps. A spot of beagling? Not for me, but each to their own.

I loathe skiing, but will allow that it’s a decent full body workout, especially if you do it like me, which means constantly falling over and having to push yourself up again while your legs wobble in terror.

Sailing, yes, another jolly good way to raise the old heart rate (sailing, take note, with ropes and sails, not pootling about on a vulgar motorboat). Scottish dancing will also raise the pulse, and not just because the men are wearing skirts. Golf is controversial because it smacks of executive cars and embarrassing socks, but some of you may insist it’s allowed. Fine, but can we keep the shiny polo shirts at bay?

No jogging, though. Too pedestrian. No cycling and no padel — too arriviste. No yoga, either, and absolutely no Zumba. You wouldn’t catch a duke in a Zumba class, would you? Exactly.

A shooting sock

This is dead posh. When I was small, my siblings and I all went to bed on Christmas Eve and solemnly draped one of our father’s enormous shooting socks over the end of our duvets.

These were vast, woollen socks, made to stretch over the knee, which could — gratifyingly — fit a good number of presents. These included chocolate coins, small trinkets from the toy shop, jokes such as a whoopie cushion and, as we got older, beauty goodies from Boots.

There was slight confusion one year when Father Christmas had too much to drink before doing his rounds and confused my stocking with my brother’s. Easily done after a few whiskies since one shooting sock looks very like another. ‘Poor Father Christmas, it must have been very dark,’ came the excuse in the morning.

A football sock

Technically the right shape, as above, just fractionally less posh.

A pillowcase

Quite oligarch in style because it suggests Father Christmas has delivered so many presents, and potentially quite large presents, that you need something more sack-like than a big sock. It also takes the joy out of ferreting deeper and deeper into a stocking until you get to the tangerine in the toe.

One leg hacked off from an old pair of tights

Not a huge amount of effort has been made here, has it? As a grown-up, you may need therapy.

A monogrammed stocking

You’re probably an influencer and will pose with your partner/children/dog in matching pyjamas on Christmas Day. You’ve kept up Elf on the Shelf all Advent and posted it on Instagram every day. You want everything to be so perfect this year that you’re on the edge of a nervous breakdown and may well file for divorce come January.

A silk stocking

No, no, you’ve got Christmas all wrong.

A flipper

This is extremely ostentatious because it implies that you’re spending Christmas somewhere hot like the Seychelles or Antigua. Or the Maldives, where my siblings and I left out our flippers in lieu of stockings one year. Immensely spoiled, I know, but in my defence it was the first post-separation Christmas where my father had us without Mum, so he decided on an expensive distraction technique. It worked, too, because I spent a lot of time that holiday worrying about how Father Christmas was going to fit all my presents into a flipper. Fortunately, he made it work by having the presents spill out of them. Clever old stick, isn’t he?

First up, we don’t call them hosting gifts. It is a useful catch-all term here for the uninitiated, but ‘thank you present’ will suffice in most cases, whether you’re referring to a present for someone having you to stay for the weekend, for a dinner party, for a week’s holiday in their Provençal villa and so on.

Secondly, always take something. Always. It can be a jar of jam, or a box of eggs. It doesn’t have to be extravagant if it’s just dinner. Some people believe it’s rude to bring wine to a dinner party because the implication is the host’s wine won’t be any good. Frankly, I’m always delighted with wine because it’s probably better than mine. If you’re coming to my house, I’ll be over-the-moon with a cheap bottle of pinot noir and a box of Maltesers. Preferably cheap chocolate over anything posh. Doesn’t everybody prefer a bar of Cadbury’s? If you’re dead chic and it’s a smart dinner party, you send a bouquet of flowers the day before the party, so the host doesn’t have to rush about finding a vase when you arrive on the night, and they help the house look lovely. That takes a heroic level of organisation, though. I’d still be happy with the Maltesers.

If you’re going to stay with someone for the weekend, you can probably try a bit harder. Some people grumble about getting another smelly candle or a bottle of bath oil, but have you ever received one of those and felt disappointed? I haven’t. You’re jolly spoiled if you have. A book makes a more thoughtful present, but only if you’ve read it and you know it’s good, or suspect it to be something that your host will like rather than any old book plucked from the shelf of the nearest supermarket. Plus, one (or preferably two) bottles if you’re a drinker. If you and they have hordes of children, what about a game they might all like to play together? An outside game, ideally. That giant bubble wand?

Talking of games, if you’re going to stay in someone’s house abroad, I don’t reckon you can do much better than packing Ex Libris as a present, an excellent after-dinner literary game that people seem to have rarely come across. Once you’ve returned, unless you’ve fallen out or done something controversial like sleeping with their husband and you’re never going to see one another again, that’s the moment to send something more generous — a case of wine, say, or an album or collage of photos from the holiday if you’re an arts-and-crafts sort.

Where are you spending New Year? Oh no, not in the UK? Surely not? Come on, be serious. Anyone in their right mind abandons ship after Christmas for some winter sun.

For several days between Christmas and New Year, the departures lounge at Heathrow Terminal 5 becomes busier than Daylesford HQ as families from neighbouring villages wave at one another and have loud and indiscrete conversations. ‘How funny to see you here! Where are you off to? Oh Lamu, heaven! We were there a couple of years ago, but thought we’d try somewhere different this year. Antigua, mmm. Yes, staying at Carlisle Bay! Oh, are they there too? We’ll look out for them. Darling! Darling, that’s us, they’re calling our gate. Hang on, I need to go to the Caviar House before we board.’

We’re not talking watery sun of the sort you find in certain parts of Europe at this time of year. Or about skiing. Skiing is a different kind of winter holiday to be discussed in another column (read: watch this space). No, we mean proper sun. Ideally quite close to the equator. This involves long-distance flights which will cost roughly a billion pounds, even if you shunt the children in Economy and you fly up front à la Kirstie Allsopp. But it’ll be worth it, won’t it, to escape the dark, dreariness of *insert your county* after Christmas.

Perhaps you’re off to a sunny patch of Africa? Lamu, as mentioned. Or Watamu on the Kenyan coast, or Lewa — where William proposed to Catherine — up country, for a spot of safari. Or maybe further south, to the winelands of Cape Town. You could be a swallow, one of the Brits who’s been jetting to South Africa for the winter for years. Islands are very popular. Think Sri Lanka, or Barbados (although Sandy Lane is terribly full of footballers these days), Harbour Island, Mustique, or the aforementioned Antigua. If you’re a television reality star, you may also be going to the Maldives or Dubai.

You could be staying in a hotel, but it’s grander to be in a villa with plenty of staff and a cook. There will be a row about who is in which bedroom. At least one person will get sick. Someone else will get violently sunburnt. A child will be stung by an exotic insect and cry for several hours. There'll be a splenetic row following a round of Monopoly Deal. There will be another row about the villa WiFi not working. Someone’s luggage will have been lost on the way out and they’ll spend the entire week on the phone to British Airways trying to locate it. They won’t locate it. There will be a final row about the villa’s enormous bar tab at the end, and how much to leave for tips. Lovely to get away from it all, though, isn’t it? Must do it again next year.

First of all, we’re not pronouncing them canapés like the French. If you must use that word, you have to do it in a comedy accent: ‘Would you like a ca-nape?’ Sorry, that’s the law. Use the same comedy accent for nibble, hors d’oeuvre, amuse-bouche and appetiser to denote you’re using the word ironically. There is no good word for these things. Someone once proffered a tray and said to me ‘Would you like an eat?’ I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that person again.

If a waiter appears at your side with a tray of blinis and the person you’re talking to turns them down, but you’re starving because you haven’t eaten since lunch and it’s been a long day and you’re three glasses of Champagne down, for heaven’s sake, take a blini. Eating isn’t impolite, and it’s much jollier to eat and be merry than hungry and sad, forlornly watching the waiter retreat with his tray as if you’re witnessing the last lifeboat off the Titanic.

Similarly, if a waiter appears and there’s only one canapé on the tray, don’t dance around it for half an hour: ‘You have it’, ‘No, honestly, I insist’, ‘No, you must’, and so on. Someone just get on with it and eat the thing.

If you’ve just eaten a blini, or really any fish canapé, maintain a minimum distance of one foot between you and whoever you’re talking to.

It is a bit greedy to take more than one canapé from a tray at a time.

If you’re in charge of the party, could we have somewhere to put our used cocktail sticks? Alternatively, men can always tuck them behind their ear for that jaunty, Dick van Dyke vibe; women, consider using them as hair pins.

They don’t have to be fancy. Almost everybody likes cocktail sausages and/or pigs-in-blankets. Slap some paté on toasted rounds of baguette. Parma ham on a stick? Smoked salmon and cream cheese on a cracker? Padron peppers? I also like a bowl of those frozen Itsu gyozas that you can now get from supermarkets. Don’t lose your mind trying to make mini Yorkshire puddings stuffed with beef and horseradish. Leave that sort of caper to the professionals.

I was once chatting to a man at a drinks party who accidentally spat a small globule of canapé on to my bare arm. Neither of us said anything, although both were painfully aware of it soldiering its way down my bicep. I was young, in my defence. If this happens to you, the best way forward is to say gaily: ‘Whoops, happens to us all’, locate a napkin and wipe the globule off.

Be very wary of anything in a bun — mini burgers, mini bao buns, choux buns — because it’s highly likely that an ingredient, possibly scalding, will shoot out the other side as you bite into it.

On which note, canapés should ideally be one bite only. Don’t get me started on bowl food.

It is progress, on the whole, that dogs are now allowed in so many spaces. Some may disagree, but as sensible Country Life readers, you’re probably with me. Dogs can come out for dinner with us; dogs can stay in smart hotels. But just because they can, does it mean they should?

Not so long ago, I went to stay in a smart new hotel in an idyllic East Sussex village while walking a section of the South Downs Way. Pretty headboards; thick dressing gowns; William Morris wallpaper. Splendid. Except unfortunately, when I woke in the morning, Dennis had left a little, erm, present by the bedroom door, on the very new, very pristine sisal carpet (which stains easily, as some of you may know). My one-year-old terrier is largely housetrained, but there is the odd accident and sadly this was one of them. It left a mark that I hoped housekeeping might mistake for mud from a walking boot and it wasn’t, in all, a deeply relaxing experience.

A few weeks earlier, we’d stayed in a big posh Cotswolds hotel. That was very lovely, too: huge, dog-friendly room, with a Le Chameau dog bed, a water bowl and a ‘welcome pack’ of treats for Dennis. However, almost as soon as I’d checked in, I’d remembered why it’s quite nice to leave him with the dog sitter, sometimes. I had to fumble around the room for a fork to mash his supper; I was constantly trying to keep his damp, muddy paws off the immaculate crisp, white bedding; he wasn’t allowed in the dining room; he barked every time he heard another bedroom door open and close. He wasn’t allowed off the lead in the grounds, either, lest he spot a bunny or cause havoc among the hotel’s bee hives.

And then there was time before that, while driving through France, when he and I stopped at an immensely swanky château hotel in Bordeaux, and Dennis weed on the carpet in the morning before I could hustle him outside. The place was so vast I simply couldn’t find the exit. I then ran — in my hotel dressing gown — between the stairs and a nearby loo for wads of paper to mop it up with, hoping that no member of staff would see me.

Many hotels, and several very grand ones, have made enormous efforts to welcome guests’ dogs in recent years, but I’m not sure this means that they need to come along on every jolly. I feel the same towards restaurants — wonderful to have the option, and very practical, but must we have them with us at all times? Do other hotel guests, potentially paying a good whack of cash for a spoiling weekend, want your dog there, standing near their breakfast table in the morning in the hope of a crust?I’m not sure dogs necessarily want to hang out in hotels and restaurants either, being constantly shushed and told to lie quietly, or ticked off for jumping on the furniture. Granted, not taking them with you involves organising a dog sitter, but it may prove a more restful break, sometimes, to leave them behind in more familiar surroundings. The same goes for children.

In a perfect world, we’d all have dogs that never misbehave or upset anyone. Unfortunately, I have an 18-month-old terrier, so barely a day goes by without at least one misdemeanour. If I had a star chart on my fridge, the sort that people use for their toddlers, Dennis would have zero stars. Last month, we went to stay with a friend’s parents in Berkshire and I belatedly realised that her mother has chickens. I was alerted to this by a sudden squawking outside the back door, whereupon I saw a white blur scurrying around after several orange hens.

‘DENNIS!’ I screamed. He ignored me. Eventually, I cornered him under the hen house, hauled him out and shut him in my car for a spell so that he could have a good long think about his actions. Half an hour later, my hosts implored me to release him so he could scamper around the garden with their corgis. Unfortunately, not long after that, Dennis squeezed back into the chicken pen and the same drama ensued. Except this time, he managed to get his jaws around the neck of one unfortunate Bantam. Let’s just leave it at that.

Mortifying. Like having a child take a felt tip to the de Gournay wallpaper in the spare bedroom, except instead of felt tip it’s blood. I stuttered apologies all evening while Dennis was shut back in the car. We ate vongole and made small talk, but it felt a bit Agatha Christie — eating dinner while a murder hung over us.

Flowers didn’t seem thoughtful enough by way of apology. Ditto anything edible — ‘I’m so sorry my dog mauled your chicken, please accept these violet creams on his behalf.’ I spent some time Googling ‘chicken themed presents’, and wondering whether something chickeny from Emma Bridgewater would do it, but anything with a chicken on it seemed insensitive, a reminder of the callous barbarity that happened under the yew hedge.

In the end, I bought two pretty, porcelain mugs with birds on them. Not chickens; one was painted with tits — willow tits, bearded tits, crested tits and so on, plus the word ‘tits’ in big letters. The other said ‘peckers’ and featured ringed peckers, hairy peckers and lesser spotted peckers. An attempt to make my friend’s mother laugh seemed to strike the right note. Off they went, with an apology card from Dennis, promising that he’d be much better behaved the next time.

If you’re an American and reading this, move on. You guys are confident and generous enough when it comes to tipping. You have no need for help. Unfortunately, we Brits are, generally, less comfortable with the practice. To us, tipping — whether it’s after a haircut, a day’s shooting or a week on a superyacht — is a distressing experience which we try to manage as quickly as possible. Brits will palm someone a note or an envelope, stutter thanks, then largely turn and flee. Urgh, money. How revolting. How desperately vulgar.

Tipping can feel even more fraught, these days, given that the price of basically everything has leapt up and many are feeling the pinch. VAT on school fees and a tenner to your hairdresser? You’re not Jeff Bezos!

Obviously, in most places, tipping is optional. You don’t have to pay a service charge in a restaurant, you don’t have to tip your pedicurist. But it’s also still largely de rigeur unless you’ve had a truly abysmal experience. And in recent years, certain restaurants have made it very clear that tips are passed on to the staff, so it’s best not to be stingy and lop the service off the bill unless a waiter has dropped something scalding into your lap.

Also, is there anything more excruciating than asking for the service charge to be removed? After a very poor experience on the Southbank recently, friends and I debated this question, and the bravest among us volunteered to ask the waiter to remove it while the rest of us cowered in our seats. But it had been a very bad dinner, so I admired my friend for taking a stand. Otherwise, cough up.

When it comes to beauty appointments, it’s mean not to pay any tip at all if they’ve touched your feet or another more disgusting body party. With the disappearance of cash in recent years, it’s become easy to simply pay the stated amount for nails or waxing or hair and claim you don’t have any coins on you. ‘Can I add a tip on my card?’ is a question I’ve fallen back on several times.

Except now various places, including my hairdresser, have made it easier, with card machines that ask whether you wish to pay 5%, 10% or 15% on top as you settle the bill. If you’ve just had an expensive three-hour colour treatment for a few hundred quid, spending even more may feel painful. Either hit 5% or remember to go to the cash point and take a tenner out before getting there, then quietly hand that over. It doesn’t have to be a huge amount. Anything at all these days is appreciated, a stylist friend tells me. A pound or two for Deliveroo drivers is, I reckon, a kindness too. Everyone’s fighting rising costs, after all.

A tip on the bedside table is also still expected by certain sorts if you go to stay with them for a night or more. Certainly if you’re staying with someone aged 50 or over, and perhaps by younger pals if they’re traditional sorts. If they live in the sticks, make sure you have cash on you before arriving. Staying in Guernsey a month or so ago, I forgot to visit the ATM in advance and subsequently got up at 6am on the final morning to walk to the nearest petrol station and back before breakfast — a journey of eight miles, simply to save face. But at least I’ll be invited back.

In short, even in these straightened times, tipping remains a generous and decent thing to do. Every little counts, and all that. Just do plan ahead if you’re off to the country.

Ooof, I’m so sorry. This is a bad one. How quickly did you unlike the picture? If the person in question doesn’t have Instagram notifications switched on, you may get away with it and they won’t know. If they do have notifications, I’m sorry to say they’ll know you’ve been furtively scrolling through their profile. Busted.

So easy to do, these days. It’s inevitable, given how much time we all spend online, that there’ll be the odd slip up. In most cases, I would simply unlike the post as quickly as possible and ignore it. Especially if it’s an ex’s profile or, even worse, the profile of their new partner. You could try and make a joke about it. ‘Whoops, so sorry, just doing a spot of historical research,’ but historical research on your ex’s profile seems a funny thing to be doing at 11.32pm on a Tuesday night. Really, there’s nothing remotely redeemable you can say in this situation. You were snooping on their page, you’ve been caught out, never mind. More dignified to say nothing rather than try to explain it. It may feel excruciating now, but in a few days you’ll have forgotten it.

I know this because I’ve done it. A few years ago, in an Uber home after a night out, and several wines, I accidentally liked a wedding picture posted by an ex-boyfriend’s new wife. At the time, I wanted to move to Mexico and go into witness protection. It felt hugely dramatic. It still felt quite dramatic and shaming the morning afterwards. Now? I can barely remember the picture. Her in a wedding dress, their hands in the air, maybe? Embarrassing for a moment, but nobody died.

A different policy applies when it comes to that other digital slip up: accidentally sending a rude message about someone on WhatsApp to that very person instead of whoever you meant to send it to. On WhatsApp, if you’re quick enough, you can now delete said message. But given how often we’re all on that app, they may well have already seen it. In this case, I would address it with a grovelling apology. ‘I’m so sorry, that was unforgivable. I’m having a bad day. Please can we forget it ever happened?’ That kind of thing. They probably won’t forget, but at least you’ve been a grown-up and tackled the issue.

Or you could do what a certain member of my family did when he accidentally emailed a woman calling her ‘a rude cow’ in an email intended for someone else. Having realised his error, he panicked, slammed his laptop shut and simply walked out of the office. Later, he sent an apologetic follow-up, but immediately after it happened, he simply needed a walk in fresh air. We’ve all been there, and if not, you will be one day. The easiest thing, as with so many hiccups in life, is to apologise as quickly as possible. I’m so sorry, properly meant, goes a long way.

Here’s the scenario: you’re going to New York for work and you’d like your other half to come. Imagine: a couple of nights at The Lowell; lunch somewhere downtown; dinner at King. What could be lovelier? Except you’re flying towards the pointy end of the plane and he or she is in the back. The company’s paying for you, but you don’t have enough airmiles (or cash) to upgrade your partner, so they’re stuck in 54G between a large man who’s using both armrests and a new mother who’s struggling to breastfeed. Another glass of Heidsieck? Don’t mind if you do.

This situation could easily cause friction. In 2018, Kirstie Allsopp sparked headlines when she declared that she and her husband flew up front, but parked their kids in Economy. Personally, I don’t see anything enormously problematic with this, so long as the children don’t cause a commotion unsupervised or kick the chairs in front of them. If you’ve earned Business Class, fly Business Class. Does any child really deserve those giant seats? As Kirstie herself declared: ‘Club class should be a huge treat that you've worked for. If kids get used to club class, what do they have to work towards?’ Well, quite.

Splitting couples is different and requires more delicate handling. You could be chivalrous and offer the business seat to your other half on the way back. But what if you land and have to head straight into meetings? You need to be fresh. You need that flat bed.

You could always smuggle a glass of Champagne back to 54G, or promise that you’ll keep your little bag of amenities for them. Perhaps your other half is an easy-going sort who can be mollified by an eye mask and a tube of toothpaste so small a mouse could pack it in his overnight bag.

You could (slightly more forcefully) point out that your company’s paying for the hotel, and you can expense various lunches and dinners, that it’s practically a free trip for them anyway. If you’re feeling romantic and bold, you could try and persuade a member of the cabin crew to make some sort of swooning declaration over the tannoy: ‘To the passenger in 54G, your partner would like you to know that you’re the love of their life and they do hope you’re enjoying the chicken or fish.’

Alternatively, take them to the lounge before the flight and get several glasses of Champagne down them, there and then. That should take the edge off things nicely.

Click here to read our review of BA's Business Class product, and here for Qatar's

Had you asked me this a couple of years ago, I’d have said of course not, don’t be so disgusting. It’s enough that dogs are allowed into restaurants, these days. Once there, they should lie quietly under the table.

Then I got my own dog, and I realised the situation is slightly more complicated.

It depends, for a start, on the restaurant. Should you be eating at The Ritz, enjoying a sumptuous and celebratory dinner featuring starched napkins, caviar, foie gras, Dover sole and a splendid bottle of white Burgundy or two, then no, your dog should absolutely not be sitting at the table. A posh restaurant is likely to have posh seating, sprung, upholstered chairs or banquettes which shouldn’t be sullied with grubby paws, even if dogs are allowed.

On the other hand, imagine you’re in the pub, as I was recently, beside the sea in Whitstable. A casual place where scampi and chips are served in cardboard boxes. It was a busy Saturday, with punters and waiting staff scurrying back and forth. We were sitting outside on a bench and Dennis the terrier was at risk of being trampled on, or at risk of tripping someone up with his lead. I lifted him on to the bench and he settled down beside me. Is that so very bad?

I’m not saying they should eat like humans. Not so long ago I was in Lucio, a dog-friendly Italian on the Fulham Road, where the owner told me that his customers sometimes order the fillet steak or the chicken paillard and hand-feed slivers of it to their dogs. Hmm. The punter is paying the bill, so what they do with their food is their call, one might say. But feeding dogs from the table only encourages begging. Admittedly, I did once offer Dennis a small piece of truffled arancini in a Mayfair restaurant, but I felt it was important that he try his first truffle. Otherwise he is expected to lie quietly, most often under the table, while the grown-ups eat.

So it’s situation dependent, is what I’m saying. In a very smart, white tablecloth sort of joint, definitely not. In the pub, well, I’m sure the seats have seen worse. And sometimes, if it’s cramped, if the tables are very close together, if there simply isn’t space under the table, it’s easier to lift them up to your lap.

Also, a few months ago, I darted into Chucs in Dover Street for a quick chopped salad lunch with Dennis. ‘Do you get many dogs in here?’ I asked the waitress, when she brought over a water bowl for him. 'Yes', she replied, adding that sometimes the odd person even brought in their cat to dine with them. As civilised and intelligent readers of Country Life, I think you all know what’s preferable.

Oof, the t-word. It’s a funny one, this; smacks of Edwardian shooting weekends. Leaving a note tucked coyly under the lamp on the bedside table? What is this, 1911? Still, tipping is greatly appreciated and good manners if you’re going to stay with friends this summer, especially friends who may have cleaners, gardeners, a pool man, a cook, a long-suffering nanny who’s been dumped with your own children as well as your friend’s all week, and so on and so on.

The best way to go about this is simply to ask your friend. Be upfront. Obviously some of us would obviously rather fart in public than discuss money, but every now and then it’s unavoidable. Sorry.

‘What should I leave in the way of tips?’ is an easy enough sentence to get out a few days before leaving, and your host will likely be grateful that you’ve raised the subject before they did. Either discretely slide them a few notes on the day of departure or leave some in your bedroom. One friend simply has an antique jar marked ‘opium' on the dresser in the kitchen of her French farmhouse and everyone throws their Euros into that. Unless otherwise instructed, I reckon €10 a night is a good rule of thumb.

If you’re staying somewhere remote, remember to have cash on you when you leave. It’s very easy, these days, to travel without it at all. But what happens then is you find yourself, as I did recently, running around a rural Provençal village, looking for the only working ATM. This involved a trip to the post office, some appallingly mangled French, and a hurried trip to the bank when it finally opened.

Rotten luck if you’re staying on a friend’s yacht as the tips tend to be much bigger. Go to the bank before you leave the marina.

I had just such a quandary recently. After dinner at a pal’s house, I sent a short thank you card in the post. It had been a girls’ night — women only, pizza and rosé in her garden — and my pen had hovered over the front of the envelope. It felt weird, antiquated, to stick her married name on the front — Mrs Tom So-and-So. Given that she’s a traditional sort, I did anyway. But it felt quite strange to me. Women can vote! Women can drive! Women can re-wire a plug socket!

Ok, maybe not the last one (just kidding. No letters, please). But, still, why should we continue writing to one another as if we’re mere properties of our husbands?

It depends on the friend, I reckon. Should she be a certain age (let’s say, ooh, over 50), then you’re probably safe. Anyone under that and you may land yourself in hot water. There is a Mumsnet thread on this topic that runs to 11 pages with hundreds of furious comments from women cross that they’ve been addressed by their husbands’ names. ‘Misogynistic bullsh*t’, thunders one. ‘I F**KING HATE IT!’ says another. ‘I like it, it’s traditional,’ ventures one brave soul, only for the next commenter to retort ‘so was slavery'.

So, a surprisingly controversial topic, but also one which simply requires a little common sense. Has your friend taken her husband’s name? In that case, she likely won’t mind. Maybe she’ll even appreciate it. That was the done thing for many years, after all. If she’s one of the growing number of women who hasn’t taken her husband’s name, however, (according to most recent figures, only a third of women aged between 18 and 34 say they would), then proceed with caution. If you’re writing to the couple, use both their full names on the envelope: Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. Or just hers. Not complicated.

Sometimes, if I’ve been to stay with friends who have children for the weekend, I send a note addressed on the front to ‘Team Granger-Weasley.’ You may not be able to get away with that if you’ve been to stay with the Prince and Princess of Wales in Norfolk, or a ducal family at their great big house. But, if they’re good enough friends and you want to thank them all, I wouldn’t worry too much about formality. It’s an envelope. It goes in the bin. There are some etiquette issues worth fussing about nowadays (phone use, punctuality, how many kisses to leave at the end of a message), and there are some that you shouldn’t angst over for more than 30 seconds. This, imho, is the latter.

A heavy thump on the doormat. Oh look, another wedding invitation. (NB. Note the use of ‘invitation’, not ‘invite’. Invitation is the noun, invite the verb. Referring to it as a ‘wedding invite’ makes me come over all Lady Bracknell.)

Inside this invitation you’ll find 63 inserts, one of which will have details of the happy couple’s wedding list. ‘Your presence is our present,’ the couple may say at the top of this insert, before going on to say that they have a wedding list at John Lewis or Prezola, just in case you do want to buy them a set of Riedel glasses. Your presence, it turns out, isn’t quite good enough.

Alternatively, they may ask for a ‘contribution’ to their honeymoon. On the upside, at least this is upfront and straightforward. It saves you scrolling through their wedding list, debating whether to buy the three remaining bath towels or the rather nasty vase they’ve inexplicably asked for. Each to their own.

‘Tacky!’ huff others. And yes, I slightly agree. Openly asking people for cash towards your five-star jolly to the Maldives sticks in the craw, somewhat. But here’s a dirty little secret about wedding lists: many of them are converted into cash after the wedding anyway. So you may think you’ve bought the couple a set of Riedel glasses or a shiny new toaster, but it turns out the couple converted their whole list into cash, or vouchers, and spent it on something else instead. And I don’t reckon that’s much better than asking for a honeymoon contribution, tbh. It may even be worse. Disingenuous.

In this vein, the worst invitation I ever came across was one with a very coy paragraph asking each guest to contribute to a ‘brick’ of the couple’s new house; in other words, to help them with their deposit on their new house. Suddenly I’m feeling quite Lady Bracknell again.

Alternatively, I went to a wedding last year where the couple had a wedding list with a wine merchant. ‘To ensure that we have many happy memories with you post wedding,’ the couple said in their invitation, so I bought a case of Pinot Noir, and have drunk a bottle or two with them since. Lovely stuff. If you’re more literary, one of London’s finest bookshops, John Sandoe in Chelsea, will help you curate a wedding list of books which your guests can choose from, with bespoke bookplates in each one so you know who’s given what. I love this idea even more than I love the idea of a wine wedding list. When it comes to a wedding list, books are better than bricks.

Can I throw my dog a birthday party? According to a recent survey, nearly two thirds of British pet owners celebrate their pets birthday. To which I only ask: what’s wrong with the other third?

Popular presents include toys, ‘gourmet’ food, cushions with the pet’s face on it (I recently interviewed Dame Jilly Cooper and can confirm that her sitting room is festooned with such cushions), and DNA kits. The last one, I would humbly suggest, is more for the owner than a birthday present for the dog, but it doesn’t surprise me. Almost every dog owner I come across in my south-east London park has forked out for one of these, and discusses it as proudly as if it was their child — ‘Yes, he’s 19 per cent Afghan, 38 percent Belgian sighthound and 43 per cent Poodle.’

Over half of those questioned have also thrown their pet a party. This, thunder some, is going too far. Let dogs be dogs and so on. And yes, I agree, to a certain extent. Throwing a party for a dog, complete with party hats, a guest list and a dog-friendly vegan cake (as Sir Lewis Hamilton once did for his bulldog, Roscoe) is silly. I take a dim view of anyone putting their dog in a comedy item of clothing for ‘amusing’ social media purposes, and this policy extends towards party hats. Not dignified behaviour for the owner or poor dog.

On the other hand, Dennis — my Parson terrier — recently turned one and I bought him a new elephant toy and a huge marrow bone from the butcher as a special treat. No party but I could have thrown him one. I’ve been to plenty of first birthday parties for friends’ squawking toddlers; why not Dennis?

I didn’t because it was midweek, he was happiest dragging his bone around the garden, and I do think throwing an animal a party is a tiny bit OTT. But I defend the right to throw a dog a party, just as I understand dog owners who claim their dog is their child.

I’m not advocating the greater use of the phrase ‘fur baby’. That’s on my banned list. But just as those of us without children are expected to be entirely tolerant of those who do, to overlook tantrums in coffee shops and screaming fits when they come over for lunch, so too could non-doggie people cast a friendlier eye towards pet owners.

‘Dogs versus babies: is our love of canines causing falling birthrate?’ asked a recent headline in the Times. I’m no scientist and would humbly suggest that the decline in those of us choosing to have babies is a mite more complicated, but I don’t think sneering and laughing at dog owners who want to throw a bash for Fido helps much. If you want to, go ahead. Just, please, no party hats.

Some sticklers insist the answer to this question is ‘never’, especially if you’re only on a short-haul hop, but that strikes me as priggish. Unless you’ve gone really budget, there’s probably a button in your armrest. Why not use it? Better a gentle recline than spending a ten-hour flight to Los Angeles as upright as an Edwardian governess.

Not while still on the ground, though. This is unbridled, and you’re only going to be barked at to put it up again for take-off. It’s similarly uncivilised to slam back your seat back within 10 seconds of the seat-belt sign going off. Instead, after a few moments, cast a polite glance behind you, check that you’re not about to send a drink, a laptop or a baby flying, and then carefully and gradually slide back. You’re in 56E, not a racing car.

Go steady, too, if you can hear the nearby cry of ‘chicken or beef?’ Some airlines ask passengers to shift forward at mealtimes, so everyone can eat their frozen bread roll without having to bend over their tray as crooked as a question mark. This can be especially galling on night flights. One friend was recently incensed to be woken and asked to move her seat forward on such a flight to Sri Lanka. It was one of those night flights where very few people bothered with dinner, but the chap behind her wanted his chicken curry, so the air steward insisted my sleepy friend sit forward again. It is easiest, in such scenarios, to do what the officious air steward says. Otherwise you might find yourself banned from the airline altogether.

Last year, a couple on a Cathay Pacific flight spent some time loudly haranguing the woman in front of them who’d reclined her seat, before they started kicking it. These people were adults and have since been put on Cathay’s black list.

(While we’re on the subject of seat etiquette, could you also try and avoid heaving yourself up or sitting down by clutching the seat in front of you like a handrail? I’ve had my hair yanked numerous times by some oaf behind me lowering himself down using his fore arm and my headrest, and flying several thousand miles in a tight and confined space with 230-odd others is quite bad enough without being injured at the same time.)

Although there is an alternative to all of this drama, and that’s simply to fly Business or First.

Sorry! There’s no point in grumbling about the ubiquity of voice notes, now. They’re here, everyone’s using them, get with the programme.

That said, not so long ago, my friend Jess sent me a 29-minute voice note. ‘That wasn’t a voice note,’ I texted back, having listened to it while in the bath, ‘it was a podcast.’

I tend to have a one-minute rule for voice notes — for the ones I send and receive. What can’t be said in a minute? Hardly anything. Short and sweet, and a minute means the person on the other end doesn’t have to block out part of their day (or bath) to listen to it.

But this can be situation — and person — dependent. A few months ago, I started dating a man who sent me four-minute voice notes right from the start of our relationship. This guy’s a weirdo, I thought, before his chatty, silly, funny ramblings won me over. Voice notes help you get to know someone must faster than messages. They’re more intimate, and the tone can’t be misconstrued as it so often can be with texts. So, when it comes to dating, longer notes are allowed and potentially even encouraged.

Otherwise, a minute is fine. But equally don’t send absurdly short, 10-second notes saying ‘haha’ or ‘ok sure’ either. Immensely irritating to send a voice note containing telephone numbers or email addresses, too, meaning the receiver has to scrabble around for a pen. Text them, please.

Also, a brief note of caution when it comes to listening to voice notes in public: my friend Saz treats voice notes like therapy and frequently uses them to update me on where she is in her monthly cycle. So either have a pair of Airpods ready or lower the volume. Not everyone on the 7.17am into Victoria needs to know that your pal has just ovulated.

Good question and advice that the King and Elton John could perhaps do with, since they have 33 and 10 godchildren respectively.

Listen up, Your Majesties.

To be clear, it is of course an immense honour to be asked to be a godparent to any child. This means a friend trusts you enough to shepherd their little darling through its early life. Me? Really? The person who’s still a bit nervy about handling babies and lets their head loll around like a water balloon?

So yes, an honour, but on the other hand, the modern role of godparent is less about renouncing evil and more about providing presents on birthdays and Christmas, perhaps going to the odd sports day and offering work experience in due course. Not a huge ask, especially if you only have one or two of the blighters, but trickier if you approach double figures. It becomes expensive, time consuming and — for me (with ten godchildren, like Elton) — yet another source of guilt because I never feel like I’m lavishing any of them with enough love and attention.

Hard to turn one down, though, especially when the new parents are perched in front of you, holding their little bundle, looking expectant. Their new baby is the most precious thing in the world (to them). How can you say no to without seeming like a monster?

You could say that you’re hugely flattered, you really are, but you feel like you already have a few godchildren and don’t believe you could devote the due amount of care to another one. Or that you’re an atheist. Or a Lib Dem.

If all else fails, there’s always the Hugh Grant line from About A Boy: ‘You know me,’ says his character, Will, when asked to be a godfather. ‘I'll drop her at her christening. I'll forget her birthdays until her 18th, when I'll take her out and get her drunk and possibly, let's face it, you know, try and shag her.’ That should do the trick nicely.

A tricky one when every other person seems to be shooting up these days — so let’s start with a cautionary tale. A couple of months ago, I had a gang of friends for lunch. Nice friends, fun friends, so I spent a fortune on beef fillet. Everyone arrived, wine was uncorked, we sat and ate. Everyone, that is, apart from a guest who pushed the beef around her plate as if she was playing a private game of chess with it.

‘Didn’t you realise? She’s on Ozempic,’ another pal told me later. Huh? This woman isn’t diabetic or remotely obese. She’s simply vain and, dare I say it, a tiny bit lazy — yet another Dorian Gray spending hundreds of pounds a month on a private supply to drop a few pounds before the summer.

Meanwhile, an exasperated New York friend says she’ll no longer go out for dinner with anyone using the drugs — which means she barely goes out at all, now. ‘Everyone’s on it and it’s so boring because they ignore whatever expensive piece of steak that’ve ordered and you still split the bill at the end. It’d be less irritating if they simply admitted they were taking it and didn’t order.’

These days, it’s de rigueur to quiz people about their dietary requirements before they come for dinner — any gluten issues? Dairy OK? Are you still on that peculiar diet where you only eat purple vegetables on alternate days of the week? ‘No wheat, dairy or added sugar, SORRY I HATE ME TOO,’ replied a neurotic friend recently, after I texted to check what she could eat in advance of a Tuesday evening kitchen supper.

So perhaps the solution is to add fat jabs to the lengthy list of possibilities. ‘And can I just check: are you taking Ozempic?’ That way, they can discretely confess, and you can duly dole out the sort of minuscule helping that wouldn’t satisfy an ant.

Alternatively, if you suspect someone’s taking it and they’re coming for dinner, don’t cook beef fillet. A bowl of pasta, perhaps, or something made largely from chickpeas.