Suleiman Khan, son of Imran and Jemima, got me out late last Saturday, after a fast-bowling Ben Elliot had failed to do so despite employing all sorts of tricks against the poor little Greek boy, who only took up cricket aged 64. There was only one thing wrong. Suleiman is nine years old and less than five feet tall, whereas I am 69 and 5-foot-nine. The little blighter is a spin-bowler and he confused me enough to ensure that I was caught out. Mind you, the Hanbury team, which I play for, won over Zac Goldsmith’s Eleven with some brilliant cricketing by Mark Shand, Dave Cottrell, Harry Worcester and others too young for me to mention, although it did look funny when Shariah Bachtiar, the world’s greatest Persian, and the poor little Greek boy were batting together while our English teammates watched. And drank, and then drank some more.
Actually, last Saturday was straight out of Brideshead Revisited, a brilliant cloudless day. Good weather puts everyone in a very good mood. Some really pretty girls made the mood even better. Marina and Rose Hanbury, Poppy Delevigne, Lucy Bridge, Violet von Westenholz, Sophie Allsop — you get the picture. It’s amazing that I only dropped one ball. And watching, in a very short skirt, was the alluring Jemima. That evening Zac and Sheherazade Goldsmith entertained in their wonderful house near Tavistock, and it was a very tired Greek who finally made it back to London on Sunday. My only regret is that God gave me only one liver.
Which may not have been functioning very well two nights earlier when I had to leave the Bismarck house in order not to make a fool of myself in front of a quite sophisticated group.
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