The weather in Britain is impossible to predict any more so why don't I remember to pack an umbrella? Because I'm a dolt. Simple as that. I thrust the taxi receipt in my pocket and wheel my case out onto the wet pavement. In a blink I'm at the front door, but still manage to get soaked. The night porter, Noel, lets me in and tuts loudly.
  'No coat?'
  'Well, it is May.'
  'What?' he exclaims.
  Oh, let's not go there again, I sigh to myself. After signing in, I spend the next few minutes warming my toes by the hearth in the lobby. There's no fire in the grate but, bizarrely, it feels comforting just sitting in front of it. Noel is from Sri Lanka, and together we are trying to help raise funds for an orphanage in Colombo. In fact, it's entirely his fault that I shall be running the New York marathon. I bid him goodnight and squeeze into the tiny lift which might usefully double as a metal coffin. In my room, with its floral eiderdown, flannelette sheets and feather pillows, I am whisked back to childhood holidays in Wales staying in my grandfather's cottage in a remote village.
  A year ago when Alan and I had taken the decision to sell our flat in Pimlico, we knew that I would still need a pied-à -terre for my work trips back to London. Friends helpfully offered rooms but, not wanting to become the proverbial bad penny, I decided to hunt out an inexpensive refuge of my own. By sheer luck I discovered my club, an extraordinary oasis from the ravages of London life, and home to an irresistible cocktail of colourful, eccentric and quixotic members. The deciding factor for joining was the dark and musty oak-panelled library with its faux bookcase behind which lay a secret chamber. For that alone I would have signed up. True, the bathrooms were mostly shared, at times the water ran cold, and in the bedrooms the drawers and windows jammed, but for all that it represented one of London's hidden jewels, a national treasure to be lovingly preserved.
  I slowly unpack my case and with effort get ready for bed. Before setting the alarm I take a cursory glance at my loyal and tatty old leather diary. Since moving to Mallorca, I have stubbornly resisted embracing the new age of electronic gadgets and that includes fruit-branded diaries. My gun-toting client, Manuel Ramirez of H Hotels, has warned me about the perils of such toys. Apparently, last month while washing his socks in the bath of a plush Parisian hotel, his BlackBerry® fell from his jacket pocket into the bath water and that was the end of it. Of course, had he used the hotel's laundry service, the BlackBerry® might have remained intact and his socks in better condition, but that's neither here nor there.
  I turn the page and groan. In the morning I have an early breakfast meeting with the owner of Miller Magic Interiors in New York. Anyone with the name Daniella Popescu-Miller, spells trouble. And then at six-thirty, joy of joys, I'm due to see my old adversary, Greedy George, to discuss the delights of cat suits and dog collars. It's nearly midnight and I'm too exhausted to read the blur of other appointments, so I switch out the light. In my mind's eye I can see Alan and Ollie asleep in their beds. The cats will be prowling in the orchard in search of mice and rats, and my beloved frogs will be crooning in the pond.
Monday 7.15 a.m., the club, Audley Square
Someone's knocking on the bedroom door. I squint at my watch in the gloom. The overhanging light bulb has blown and I'm dressing by the sickly light of the bedside lamp. The chintzy curtains are drawn back, but it might as well still be night. Rain pounds the window and the sun continues to slumber beneath a soft quilt of slate cloud. Having risen at six o'clock, I managed to run around the quagmire of Hyde Park for the best part of an hour before returning, sodden, to the club for a quick shower. Now I'm attempting to dress and slap on some make-up before my
  'No coat?'
  'Well, it is May.'
  'What?' he exclaims.
  Oh, let's not go there again, I sigh to myself. After signing in, I spend the next few minutes warming my toes by the hearth in the lobby. There's no fire in the grate but, bizarrely, it feels comforting just sitting in front of it. Noel is from Sri Lanka, and together we are trying to help raise funds for an orphanage in Colombo. In fact, it's entirely his fault that I shall be running the New York marathon. I bid him goodnight and squeeze into the tiny lift which might usefully double as a metal coffin. In my room, with its floral eiderdown, flannelette sheets and feather pillows, I am whisked back to childhood holidays in Wales staying in my grandfather's cottage in a remote village.
  A year ago when Alan and I had taken the decision to sell our flat in Pimlico, we knew that I would still need a pied-à -terre for my work trips back to London. Friends helpfully offered rooms but, not wanting to become the proverbial bad penny, I decided to hunt out an inexpensive refuge of my own. By sheer luck I discovered my club, an extraordinary oasis from the ravages of London life, and home to an irresistible cocktail of colourful, eccentric and quixotic members. The deciding factor for joining was the dark and musty oak-panelled library with its faux bookcase behind which lay a secret chamber. For that alone I would have signed up. True, the bathrooms were mostly shared, at times the water ran cold, and in the bedrooms the drawers and windows jammed, but for all that it represented one of London's hidden jewels, a national treasure to be lovingly preserved.
  I slowly unpack my case and with effort get ready for bed. Before setting the alarm I take a cursory glance at my loyal and tatty old leather diary. Since moving to Mallorca, I have stubbornly resisted embracing the new age of electronic gadgets and that includes fruit-branded diaries. My gun-toting client, Manuel Ramirez of H Hotels, has warned me about the perils of such toys. Apparently, last month while washing his socks in the bath of a plush Parisian hotel, his BlackBerry® fell from his jacket pocket into the bath water and that was the end of it. Of course, had he used the hotel's laundry service, the BlackBerry® might have remained intact and his socks in better condition, but that's neither here nor there.
  I turn the page and groan. In the morning I have an early breakfast meeting with the owner of Miller Magic Interiors in New York. Anyone with the name Daniella Popescu-Miller, spells trouble. And then at six-thirty, joy of joys, I'm due to see my old adversary, Greedy George, to discuss the delights of cat suits and dog collars. It's nearly midnight and I'm too exhausted to read the blur of other appointments, so I switch out the light. In my mind's eye I can see Alan and Ollie asleep in their beds. The cats will be prowling in the orchard in search of mice and rats, and my beloved frogs will be crooning in the pond.
Monday 7.15 a.m., the club, Audley Square
Someone's knocking on the bedroom door. I squint at my watch in the gloom. The overhanging light bulb has blown and I'm dressing by the sickly light of the bedside lamp. The chintzy curtains are drawn back, but it might as well still be night. Rain pounds the window and the sun continues to slumber beneath a soft quilt of slate cloud. Having risen at six o'clock, I managed to run around the quagmire of Hyde Park for the best part of an hour before returning, sodden, to the club for a quick shower. Now I'm attempting to dress and slap on some make-up before my
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