Readers are occasionally kind enough to write to me, and one or two have remarked, ‘Rosemary, darling, one of the things I like about your column is that NOTHING EVER HAPPENS’.
Well, I think we can dispense with that criticism. Have they forgotten last week’s tense and breathless account of how I topped up the oil in my car, helped only by a man called John? Nothing ever happens, indeed!
You might remember that, when opening the car bonnet to top up the oil, I glanced under the passenger seat and discovered, among other things, one sock and a pair of gentleman’s underpants.
When I got home, Mr Dear inspected the underpants. ‘They’re not mine,’ he said rather brusquely, ‘and neither is that sock.’
‘Well, they’re certainly not mine. And…
