Sarah Vine

On the hottest day of the year, St Pancras station would not have been my first choice for lunch, but it turned out to be, quite literally, the coolest of venues. I was meeting my brother (not Jeremy, as is often assumed, but Ben), over from Spain to attend the launch of a book I’ve written, How Not to Be a Political Wife. Even Ben was struggling with the heat, and when London is hotter than Madrid, you know something’s up. Anyway, he was heading to Stansted, I to Corby, so it seemed like the logical place. We found a table at Booking Office 1869, cool and dark beneath huge, vaulted ceilings. The food was surprisingly good: light, whipped smoked cod roe, cured Loch Duart salmon, miso-glazed aubergine, hot salty chips.

To the Garrick, for a festive feast with my dear ex-husband and offspring. My daughter and I decide to make the pilgrimage from Turnham Green by taxi, owing to a combination of torrential rain, vulnerable blow-dries and high heels. Schoolgirl error: we could have flown to Manchester in roughly the same length of time – and at a fraction of the price. Thank you, Sadiq Khan. What a splendid job you’ve done turning London into a giant car park. We eventually arrive, half an hour late, dodging the garish rip-off rickshaws blaring headache-inducing yuletide tunes which now infest the West End (again, take a bow, Mr Khan), and enter the wood-panelled sanctuary.

Browsing my local Oxfam, my eye was drawn to a faded hardcover with the title The Merry Wives of Westminster. As some readers may know, my Twitter handle is @WestminsterWAG, so I bought it for the princely sum of £2.99. It wasn’t until I got home and started reading it that I realised who the author was: Marie Belloc, sister of Hilaire, a successful novelist in her own right. Married to the Times journalist Frederick Lowndes, she died in 1947; this little book was published in 1946. She writes with clarity and confidence on the SW1 of her day, but what’s fascinating are the parallels with modern life: the money worries, the snobberies and snubbings, the late-night working practices of Fleet Street’s finest, the professional rivalries.

Christmas has an annoying tendency to kick off far too early these days, but I can never give into it until after my son’s birthday on 23 November. This year he turned 18, which feels like a milestone for both of us. He can now legally be served in a pub and go to prison, and I theoretically have a man about the house again. Even though, unfortunately, he seems to have taken after his father in his complete inability to perform any of the traditional male roles, such as assembling flat-packed furniture or not setting fire to the toaster. Still, I feel a sense of achievement at having managed to keep a whole human alive into adulthood. My other adult human is at university in Manchester.

We left prepared. Bottles of water, protein snacks, phone chargers, portable Scrabble (even the teenagers can look at the internet for only so long). And we left early: our crossing was at 2 p.m., and by 9 a.m. we were already on the M25. Six-hour queues, we’d been warned. Armageddon on the M2. Somewhere around Maidstone, I got a text. P&O Ferries: ‘We regret our sailings are delayed by up to 45 minutes.’ Uh-oh. But as we descended into Dover, zero sign of trouble. We sailed through check-in. ‘So sorry there’s a bit of a delay,’ said the man in the booth. No worries, said we, pathetically grateful not to be stuck in a lorry park. On to French customs. Again, not a queue in sight.

How ironic that it should take an invasion of the female-only pond in Hampstead by trans women to make luvvies realise the implications of allowing any old Tom, Dick or Harry who self-identifies as female into women’s spaces. Those virtue-signalling ideals are all very well around your fashionable dinner tables, but remember: it’s real women in the real world — prisons, refuges and anywhere vulnerable women exist — who have to live with the consequences.

Hamilton is the most exciting American cultural export in decades. It's now showing in London every to large, delighted audiences -- and we Brits love it. As a musical, it takes a dusty, distant slice of history and infuses it with excitement, intellect, lightning wit and an intoxicating whiff of sexual tension. I know this because I saw it in New York two years ago, just before Britain's EU referendum. And I was struck by the way it captured — not always intentionally, I suspect, given the impeccable liberal credentials of the cast and writers — the political mood in America and over here: revolution, uncertainty, unrest, the falling of old orders and rising of new.

Owing to the spectacular uselessness of Ticketmaster, my son missed out on his birthday treat, seats for Hamilton at the newly refurbished Victoria Palace Theatre. Our show was cancelled — just one of a total of 16 — and our allotted replacement date clashed with an immovable engagement. By the time the rusty wheels of Ticketmaster’s nonexistent customer service had ground into action, the entire run was sold out. I asked the boy’s godfather to accompany him in my place. Turns out even that’s verboten. Such is the hype that tickets are non-transferable — and require you to show a printed email confirmation, your original payment card and a photo ID on arrival at the theatre.

I’ve seen a few spectres in my life, the most recent last year, just before New Year’s Eve. We were invited to stay with some friends in Devon. Recently restored, the house is beautiful. My daughter’s room was the sweetest: just down the corridor from ours. The first night we all slept soundly, replete with food and wine and gossip. On the second night we retired slightly earlier. I awoke at around 2 a.m. Seeing a light flickering, I walked down the corridor to my daughter’s room. She was wide awake, watching a film on my laptop. She too had woken up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I closed the laptop and straightened out the bedclothes. I then tucked her up and sat on the edge of her bed to stroke her hair.

September is my time of year. Summer is all very well if you’re one of those golden-haired, long-limbed types who looks heavenly in a sarong and a waist chain. But for me it’s just an endless battle against heat, direct sunlight, corpulence (chiefly my own) and biting insects. Besides, there’s nothing quite like that back-to-school feeling, the promise of a new term — and a chance to catch up with friends who have been off gallivanting all summer. Hence one of my favourite dates in our social calendar, an annual ‘end of summer’ party in Henley. It’s a bit of a schlep on a Saturday night, but always worth it, not least because the fish and chips are excellent and the hostess divine.

September is my time of year. Summer is all very well if you’re one of those golden-haired, long-limbed types who looks heavenly in a sarong and a waist chain. But for me it’s just an endless battle against heat, direct sunlight, corpulence (chiefly my own) and biting insects. Besides, there’s nothing quite like that back-to-school feeling, the promise of a new term — and a chance to catch up with friends who have been off gallivanting all summer. Hence one of my favourite dates in our social calendar, an annual ‘end of summer’ party in Henley. It’s a bit of a schlep on a Saturday night, but always worth it, not least because the fish and chips are excellent and the hostess divine.