She was wearing her Sunday hat the wrong way ‘round. The tiny stuffed robin which usually perched coquettishly just above her left ear was now presiding over the back of her neck which, Eunice noticed, was not as clean as it could have been.

Last week, after yet another unpleasant run in with the couple who live in the flat below, and two vicious reviews in the Sunday papers, and a snarky letter from my mother, and the news report about teenagers putting cats in bins, I decided I was done with people.

So, yesterday I finished reading “After The Funeral” which was Agatha Christie’s 44th crime fiction novel of the 66 she managed to write and publish. This means I’m officially two thirds of my way through reading all her novels in a year.

Pickie had expected him to ask a little sooner. The men she dated usually did. She could hardly blame them. It was the sort of question you asked to get the conversation going when you first met a girl.

“At her age one does not have birthdays,” announced Susan, “it’s such an inconvenience.”

I tried to explain everything to the casting agent. I was new in town. There was a small possibility that my reputation had not yet proceeded me. I even allowed myself to wonder if I might have more of a chance in this place.

The year I turned eighteen I decided to spend the summer holidays backpacking around Europe with a couple of my school chums. We would catch the train to Paris and make our way slowly South, then East, North and finally West, returning in time for matriculation.

This was to be my third summer at Seven Oaks. I had not been looking forward to it much for there was nothing for a lad to do in Seven Oaks. Grandpapa spent most of the day dozing in his armchair. Grandmama grew marrows and talked on the telephone and only seemed to notice me when it was time for something unpleasant: bed, or bath, or one of Mrs Mogford’s dreadful puddings.

Louisa had it down to a fine art. She placed the ad in the personals column on a Tuesday morning. Tuesday was a slow day. The personals were cluttered up with people looking for handy men and kitchen assistants. The lonely hearts section was slim pickings. Nobody was thinking about romance on a Tuesday morning.

All summer long, Clarissa has been studying the Longford boys. She is determined to marry one of them. She just can’t decide which.

Just after supper yesterday evening, Nurse Baxter came knocking on my study door. I was in the habit of taking a cup of cocoa before retiring and assumed this was Cook come calling, with her usual bedtime tray. I was not expecting Nurse Baxter. No one ever expects Nurse Baxter.

I had a friend at Oxford, a big strapping lad by the name of Hale; Joseph Hale. He used to get called Hearty on campus. Hale and Hearty. It wasn’t much of a nickname but none of them were. I went by Zimmo, for obvious reasons and, even now, when I bump into any of the old guard, up in London or down at Cheltenham during racing season, I’m still Zimmo to them.