An invitation to afternoon tea which reminded me what a neglected, civilised meal it is. The only time we eat it is when friends getting on a little in years are in town, people who don’t do late nights and heavy dinners. I instinctively flung on a rope of pearls.

It would probably have been a sober, tea-drinking occasion (one third English Breakfast, two thirds Earl Grey) but Danny was in from Dubrovnik with a bottle of sweet, tawny Croatian Prosek. Then we started listening to my latest discovery, an Australian called Mary Schneider who yodels the best-loved classics. Believe me, until you’ve heard Miss Schneider yodel In a Monastery Garden you haven’t lived. Well, way led on to way and before we knew it our host, Russell Oberlin, living legend in the world of countertenors and creator of very fine cucumber sandwiches, was giving us a demonstration of Nelson Eddy singing in New Moon.

Oh, give me some men who are stout-hearted men,
Who will fight, for the right they adore.

Oh absolutely. I couldn’t agree more. Another glass of Prosek and I believe we’d have got him doing Jeanette McDonald.

Then to the mountains - where incidentally, I’ve never heard anyone yodel, not even a lonely goatherd - to meet an agent because we decided to sell our little house. There was still snow on the highest peaks, the sky was incredibly blue and the second wave of spring flowers were in bloom. The place looked a picture. Why do houses do that to you the minute you decide to sell them?

And Italian house agents are a riot. Talk about sociability. Even the most casual enquiry has to be addressed over coffee and the parties present at a closing stampede to the nearest bar before the ink’s dry on the contract. It therefore goes without saying that discussing the sale of even a very modest house calls for lunch.

Thank goodness we’re not likely to be buying a palazzo. It would probably mean a three-course dinner and a sleep-over at the very least.