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A Roman mosaic found beneath London’s streets? I know the feeling — charming, overlooked, and in entirely the wrong place.

As the British heatwave rages on, I appear to have become a summer cocktail: one part iced tea, two parts quiet despair, shaken, not stirred, and entirely unsuitable for direct sunlight.

The summer solstice - that magical time of year when Freddy feels compelled to bathe in the Sacred Lake and I feel compelled to stay indoors with a citronella candle and a large sherry.

Someone at the National Portrait Gallery tearoom asked if the scones were gluten-free. The look from the waitress could’ve hung in one of the exhibition rooms - somewhere between Queen Victoria and a mildly disapproving Edith Sitwell.

A translucent bridge shaped like the Queen’s wedding tiara? The perfect fusion of “reverence” and “Royal Palaces gift shop.”

Venetian protestors eject Mr Bezos and his wedding cortege. One trusts they’ve now repaired to the Pensione Bertolini—no helipad, of course, but the views over the Arno do rather compensate.

Mother muddled Glyndebourne with Glastonbury. She arrived expecting Don Giovanni and a decent rosé, and left with a compostable poncho and a profound mistrust of Portaloos.

With water taxis in short supply, Bezos’s guests will be conveyed by Tuscan carriage drivers instead - unhurried, unbothered, and slightly overfamiliar.

Mr Eager’s overzealous tour guiding has, regrettably, triggered a mosh pit in front of the Giottos.

Lucy accompanied Rod Stewart during the Legends Slot at Glastonbury. She powered through Maggie May and Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? — while I, fool that I am, had hoped for Beethoven. Possibly the Late Quartets.

Day one of #Wimbledon. Heatstroke narrowly avoided by sheltering under an abandoned copy of ‘Under a Loggia’ by Eleanor Lavish.

With the Royal Train retired, one assumes Their Majesties must now brave the indignity of a lukewarm Pret and a noisy carriage strewn with discarded copies of Metro. Godspeed.

BREAKING: Charlotte Bartlett condemns Signora Bertolini’s big, beautiful hotel bill, calling it “a vulgar spectacle of unchecked spending.”

Not to be outdone by the popularity of ‘Dubai Chocolate’, the Cockney Signora now offers guests at the Pensione Bertolini ‘Dubious Lemonade’.

Sundays. Not so much Netflix and chill, as net curtains and composure.

Eleanor Lavish’s Amalfi Coast travelogue, The Baedeker Byways has been lambasted by critics. Apparently, the only thing she truly walked was a fine line between memoir and fiction.

With the heatwave’s return, Eleanor Lavish has pressed her Mackintosh squares into new service - as cold compresses.

I once nodded off at Glyndebourne and woke murmuring about Duchy Originals shortbread. So no - I don’t judge Hugh Grant. We all have our Centre Court moments.

With hosepipe bans now in force, Mrs Honeychurch has been reduced to whispering encouragement at her gerberas.

Have resorted to storing my cufflinks in the fridge - alongside the cornichons and what’s left of my dignity. #heatwave