Bryan Ferry has, unwittingly, written the soundtrack to my life, a fact that I happened to mention last time I was at the Palace for tea and crumpets with Her Indoors. "Well," she said, in that instantly recognisable clipped, shrill voice. "One will have to see if one can thank him in a way that only one can."
"Too kind," I replied, butter dripping from my chin, while snatching the tiny lace handkerchief her outheld hand offered me. "Have you got any kitchen towel?" I asked.